I am crippled by imaginary allergies

All day yesterday I was convinced I was suffering from allergies. After my fifth mid-meeting sneeze my boss asked if I had a cold. I told her about how we vacuumed and cleaned the blades on our ceiling fans and how it must be allergies from all the dust. She nodded as if it all made perfect sense. My husband on the other hand laughed at me. He says I have a cold. He says our children are walking petri dishes. He says we are doomed to live a disease infested life for at least another few years. I said I'm not sure I can handle being sick again so soon. He says he knows for a fact he can't handle me being sick again so soon.

My husband's chief complaint when I am ill is not the sad pile of dishes in the sink or all the toys on the floor. I think it's all the announcements of my imminent death that wear on him. That and I don't like to get up.

Last night he mentioned that I've developed the habit of not taking care of myself when I'm sick. This was his way of saying I might have felt better earlier in the evening if I'd bothered to get off my lazy butt and locate some cold medication. But I still thought I had allergies at that point. He hadn't diagnosed me as an idiot yet. So it really wasn't my fault. And then I pointed out that I have to locate medication for him when he's sick too. And then I have to talk him into taking it because he likes to pretend he's He-Man and can just tough it out. I got my medication shortly thereafter. But he ended up being right. I felt a lot better. So much better that at one point in the night I convinced myself that the allergies had gone away and I had been right about them all along. Only then I remembered the medication I took.

The allergies are clearly affecting my memory.

Time to kill is a foreign concept I look forward to getting to know

My husband officially finished up his last semester over the weekend. This is so exciting and such a weight off our shoulders that we now wander around the house aimlessly with too much time on our hands. Sadly, we're so worn out from the last semester that we lack the energy to do anything. Or maybe that's just me.

Last night, we decided we had been trapped in the house with our children too long. Typically when this happens, it means milkshakes all around at the Sonic three minutes from our house. Last night, we took a celebratory cruise to Sam's for gas followed by popping into a new furniture store to let our children climb on all their white couches. Our one year old also holed up under a giant banquet table and had to be dragged out. And then we all played tag in the dresser section. We did not, however, find any furniture.

My husband and I do not agree on decorating styles. Aside from the entire Pottery Barn catalogue anyway. Because we both agree we'd be okay living in a Pottery Barn catalogue. For example, we particularly love their bathrooms which appear to be large enough to host a 40 person dinner party. It should go without saying that you could not host any kind of party in our bathroom. Unless you are three. In which case all it takes to make a party is some bubble bath and a whisk.

We're back to complaining about our current furniture and trolling ebay for local pickup only deals. Which is fine because last week it produced a lovely six drawer dresser from Crate and Barrel. I had almost forgotten how willing I'd be to live in a Crate and Barrel catalogue until my husband brought it home. Local pickup only rules.

My DVR will not let me sleep

My promotion was less horrific today than it was the first day. In fact, it's gotten a little less horrific each day. If this trend continues, in a few short months I'll be due for the greatest day of my life.

The promotion has mostly involved getting up earlier than usual and spending all day putting out fires. Not actual flames. Just "I am lost and helpless and you are the last great hope of mankind" flames. It's unfortunate when the last great stronghold against the downfall of mankind is a chick who only started the job Monday. But whatever. That's what I like to call "Someone else's problem."

Every night this week I've come home and told my husband I was going to bed early. Then I stayed up watching television. Last night, I felt obligated to finish The Closer. She had some mysterious medical problem she said was a cold. It involved dizziness, nausea and a fever. My guess was pregnancy except since when does that give you a fever? I'd like to say I'll go to bed early tonight. But I know Big Brother's on tonight and I'm going to need to find out who wins Head of Household. Right after I watch Kail get voted out.

It's done. All 759 pages.

I finished Harry Potter last night at 1 am. My husband is very glad. He looks forward to plying me with Ambien and sacking out early tonight. I'm looking forward to annoying him with several episodes of Bridezillas that I've got stored up on my DVR.

I liked the last Harry Potter book. A lot. But I probably won't write much more about it here. At least not for awhile. Accidentally spoiling it for anyone else would make me feel too guilty. Not too guilty to live to see another day. Just too guilty to not inhale a box of Milk Duds or something. And quite frankly, I don't need any help packing away Milk Duds. So I'll just suffice to say that I liked it. A lot. And anyone that finishes it and wants to chat can feel free to email me.

I haven't finished the book yet but at least I'm not 101 anymore

Today was the first day of my big new fancy schmancy promotion. I think I’ve been on the verge of crying like five times so far. The first was when my husband ironed and starched my shirt for me while I got ready for work. The second was when my baby girl stood on the toilet and watched me put on mascara.

The day has been hectic and I kinda sorta hate the new job already. But I kinda sorta hate everything new the very first day so I try really hard not to flip out. Things seem a lot less horrific three or four days in. Just the fact that I describe things as being horrific on the first day should give some insight into my ability to overreact inside my head.

My Harry Potter book finally arrived at 4:55 pm Saturday. Which is better than 6:55 but not by much. By the time the book arrived I had finally succumbed to whatever mysterious illness gave my son 102 degree fever earlier in the week. I was 101 and half delirious. I kept going from cold to hot and complaining about when my book was going to get there. At one point I was so cold I was wearing two pairs of socks, a fleece jacket and a scarf. Ok. And maybe I put a sweatshirt around my head when I couldn’t find a winter hat. But, dude, I was really cold.

I managed to rise above the fever long enough to get through the first 500 pages of the book. I have high hopes to finish it tonight. I’m completely and utterly paranoid about someone spoiling the ending at this point so I really need to. We’ll see how my evening goes. So far it’s looking pretty packed. For example, all this work related stress is going to require some extended cuddle time with my husband which may or may not involve China doll crying. Yet another perk of being married to me.

The book that must not be named still hasn't arrived

Harry Potter has not arrived at my house yet. It is 3:42. Amazon swears I'll have my book by 7. I'm convinced I'm going to be the 6:55 delivery. I've already started contemplating running out to the store to buy a copy. But then I'd have two. And even though I'd be okay with that I think everyone I know would make fun of me.

I've already poked my head out the front door three times to check in case the delivery guy knocked and left it and maybe no one heard him. My mother keeps messing with me telling me she saw a UPS truck drive by. She also told me first thing this morning that she read online that Harry dies. She was kidding. She thinks she's funny.

I need my book to arrive soon to stand a chance of finishing it this weekend. I read fast but there are limits. If I go past the weekend, I'm worried spoilers might catch up with me. For example, at work Monday I'll actually be expected to speak to coworkers and read email. What if someone lets something slip? It would be a shame to have to turn into the Wicked Witch of the West the first day of my new promotion. Although I would. Because this is Harry Potter we're talking about.

I'd love to talk more but I really need to go poke my head out the front door again. Don't tell my mom.

Nobody invites the Wicked Witch of the West to come have cake

I recently got a promotion at work. In a strange turn of events not one but three different people came out of the woodwork wanting me to come work for them when I put in for a recent opening. I view this as a strange turn of events because one day I’m sitting at my desk minding my own business and the next day there’s a parade of higher ups dropping by. My desk is usually very quiet. Usually the most excitement I have all day is announcing there are Krispy Kreme donuts in the break room. I’m like a human public address system for food. I also announce what they are serving at luncheons and where cake and punch can be found. I’ve even been known to rate the quality of the cake versus the travel time to go get a piece for anyone that can’t decide if it’ll be worth it. Although, honestly, when is cake not worth getting up for?

My promotion will be temporary. That’s my favorite thing about it. Because I like options. Specifically, I like to have an escape clause in case something ends up sucking really, really bad. Not that I go in thinking it will. But what if.

A friend asked me today if I’ll turn into the Wicked Witch of the West upon taking the promotion. I admitted that it was unlikely as it takes a lot of time and energy to be the Wicked Witch of the West. I have neither to spare. I’m lucky if I remember to put on deodorant in the morning. Plus, if you’re not nice to people, they don’t invite you to luncheons and cake and punch gatherings. And if I don't get invited how will I fulfill my duties as the human public address system for food? Getting a promotion doesn't make me any less interested in cake, people.

No more sick babies but I'm still a dork

My child no longer has a 102 degree fever. Tylenol and a nap and he was back to flinging cordless phones in the toilet and tackling his sister. Tylenol is so awesome. I can’t believe I was unaware of it’s magical healing properties before I had kids. Had I known I would have registered for that stuff when I was pregnant.

Despite all of the sick baby tending, I managed to finish my last pre-Harry Potter book. It was the new Stephanie Plum mystery Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich. I liked it. My mother would like everyone to know it is perhaps her favorite of the series. I would like everyone to know Stephanie Plum has one and only one more book in which to start treating Joe Morelli better or I’m gone. My mother does not seem bothered by the fact that Stephanie's always hanging out with a guy that’s not her boyfriend. Up to and including spending the night at his apartment this time. In his bed. Wearing his clothes. If that were my girlfriend, I’d tell her to hit the bricks. I’m not sure why Joe doesn’t. He’s supposedly hot and smart and nice.

My mother says I need to write Janet Evanovich a letter to warn her I’m going to swear off reading anymore of her books if Stephanie doesn’t shape up. My mother’s answer to most of life’s problems is to write someone a letter about it. Just last week she wrote the post office about her stamp concerns. As a child, I remember my mother never once questioning my liberal use of stamps to write letters to any number of random people including President Clinton, Oprah and numerous authors. Alex Trebek once mispronounced Ghandi and Dante in the same week and my friends and I sent him a wacky letter pointing out his mistakes and generally explaining why he shouldn’t host Jeopardy anymore. At the time it was kind of funny. Now it’s sort of odd. And embarrassing. And odd.

And, for the record, I think Alex Trebek kinda has an attitude. He sent me back a giant Jeopardy postcard with a cute standard little note typed on the back. But there was a handwritten note scribbled next to it that said “his” dictionary lists two acceptable pronunciations for Dante. I like to think Alex himself wrote that. I like to think he was somewhere in a Burbank dressing room poring over a dictionary to see who was right. Of course, I also like to think Frisco Jones is my friend.

And, seriously, I'm not even trying to pretend I'm not insane.

Proud parenting moments

Nothing makes you quite as proud as a mother as dropping your one year old off at daycare and getting a call two hours later that he has 102 degree fever. Remember how you commented as you left that he hadn't quite been himself all morning? Right. Yeah. That's called fever, stupid. Come get your kid.

The book that must not be named arrives Saturday

The new Harry Potter book is only five days away. I've had it on pre-order since January. I'm above average excited. My husband could care less. I told him he should really care about this last one. Because Harry might die. And, let's just be clear, I could potentially flip my lid if Harry dies. He deserves to live. He's been through a lot. Life is unjust enough as it is. Kill anyone else. Just not Harry. Or Ron. Or Hermione. But that's it. I swear. Everyone else is fair game.

After I was done subjecting my husband to my whole "Harry Potter Can't Die" dissertation I reminded him about the last book. Specifically, how sad and blue I was at the end. His memory is practically a sieve so I recreated the scene for him. Me, teary eyed. Him, stuck comforting me for an hour. Technically, I wasn't crying the whole hour but there was a lot of moping and sighing. It lingered with me.

As my excitment builds for Saturday, I'm currently preparing my world for its arrival. I'm finishing up the book I'm currently reading. I'm plotting how I can trick my kids into letting me read 12 hours a day. And I'm opening a fresh box of tissues. Just in case. But that still doesn't mean it's okay to kill Harry.

I love caffeine

It’s Friday again. I’m particularly pumped this Friday for no apparent reason. I think it’s related to being extra tired. I was up at 5:38 this morning. And by up, I don’t just mean staring at myself in the bathroom mirror trying to wake up. I mean no longer wearing pajamas.

Some people get crabby when they’re tired. I become a super happy camper and slightly wacky. I ponder random topics. I can't be bothered feeling stress. I say anything that pops into my head. I think it might be caffeine related. High volume caffeine related.

The longer the day goes on I start to wind down like a top, gradually getting more and more crabby like everyone else. And I tend to cry over nothing. My husband is the one that pointed out the crying thing to me. If he can’t find any kind of nexus between my random crying and menstrual issues, his general strategy is to move directly to offering me an Ambien. He probably thinks this makes him clever. Maybe. Maybe not.

So far I’m still manic upbeat girl today. At the Taco Bell drive thru window, when the dude handing me my second Dr. Pepper of the day seemed like the nicest guy I'd ever met, I gave him the smile I reserve for long lost friends. Later in a meeting, I thought everything my boss said was hysterical. He's either going to think I'm on drugs or that he should go into stand up comedy.

It’s like I’m floating around in a cloud. Insulated from anything annoying or frustrating by high levels of caffeine and the dull fuzziness that fatigue produces in your head. Today is awesome. The whole world is awesome. Let’s all hold hands and go have another Dr. Pepper.

Let's all agree to avoid trying to implode my brain

If one more person needs one more thing from me I swear my brain will implode.

At home I’ve got shrieking children attached to my legs, three baskets of laundry to fold, my husband’s classwork to help with, letters to mail and paperwork to fill out. You know you’re feeling frazzled when you’re just happy you successfully got your car insurance paid before they charge you a late fee. That was my big accomplishment yesterday. Some people climb Mount Everest. I cross calling MetLife off my to do list.

At work, “the sky is falling” project is done but now I’m stuck trying to catch up on regular non sky is falling stuff. And I swear half of the free world thinks they have the world’s most important issue to discuss with me pretty much all day long. Which is insane because my job is normally exceptionally low key. It’s like I’ve teleported into someone else’s life.

One more phone call may send me over the edge. First my husband was calling needing social security numbers and credit card information. Then my dad wanted to discuss an upcoming business trip and some paperwork he needs. I realize I've been spacing out forgetting his paperwork for two weeks now. But bear with me, dude. It took me six weeks to return a phone call. That's gotta put the wait time on non essential paperwork at like eight weeks minimum at this point.

People don't seem to understand the current backlog that my staff and I are currently experiencing here at I'm About To Lose My Mind Headquarters. I should have my secretary issue a memo on that. My imaginary secretary that is. I will title the memo, "Stop needing things for the next two minutes or my head's going to implode."

I'm still an evil hag

Don't even try to be as awesome as me. Seriously. Right here. Big time awesome. I finally got that other mother on the phone to set up a playdate. The playdate she's been calling and leaving me notes to try to set up for a mere six weeks now. I know. I rule.

In my mind, I swear I thought it had three or four weeks. Which is still pretty sad. But at least it's not evil hag rude. Only, she dated the first note she left me. It's really hard to rewrite history in my head when May 24th is written right next to her cell phone number. Kudos to her for dating that thing, incidentally. Nice touch.

As if I didn't feel like enough of a loser, she's about the sweetest person ever when we get on the phone. Can't wait to get together, asks how my mother is and shares a sweet story about getting emotional switching her daughter to a new daycare. By the end of the conversation I was ready to volunteer to be her new best friend and invite her whole family to move into my house and stay forever. Or something like that. Again, so sweet. What kind of evil hag takes six weeks to call her?

Look no further. She's right here. I rule.

I can obsess over anything

My three year old’s backpack ripped several weeks ago. It’s only had one strap ever since but we’ve been continuing to use it until I find her a new one. I love that backpack. I’m sad to see it go. That’s probably why I delayed shopping for a new one. That I had the bubonic plague.

My husband said I should just take her to Target and let her pick a new one. He seems to think it’s just a backpack. He seems to think I’m slightly insane. Whatever.

The problem was I knew she’d just pick something pink. And probably with a Disney character no less. Gag me. As the little manservant trailing along behind her carrying the thing, can't we get something cute? Can't we get something that makes us think happy thoughts when we see it? Kind of like this one? Right. Nice try. That one is red and blue. That is not acceptable. Pink is her signature color.

I almost had her sold on this one because of the cute little owl change purse that comes off. Only it’s mostly brown. Which means it’s mostly not pink. Then for three seconds I thought about trying to get her to like a funky Roxy backpack. Only, I think I’d be the only one to find that choice kind of fresh and trendy and $50 seems unreasonable for something I know she’s going to immediately mark up with a pen anyway.

Ultimately, we ended up ordering the one she loved at first sight. Pink. Of course. But in a Pottery Barn sort of way I guess. And it’s by Skyway. They make luggage so it should be sturdy. Her last one was big time adorable but less sturdy. It was fine for the toddler years where all we needed to shove in there were a few clothes and naptime stuff. But her stuff is getting heavier and sturdy is becoming the name of the game.

In the spirit of all things sturdy, I even passed up this supercute cowboy backpack several months ago in favor of a more sturdy Samonite turtle one for my son. I can’t say enough about how rough and tough it is. I love that backpack too. Enough that I’ve mentally let go of the the cowboy one. I rarely if ever think about how to die for cute it would have looked with my son’s name stitched into the sheriff’s star at a jaunty angle. Whatever. Let's not talk about it.

8 facts to solidify my reputation as a dork

I lack the focus it takes to sit down and come up with 100 things about myself. I see those lists on other people's blogs and I admire them. Mostly I admire the ability to complete the list. And sometimes they're funny.

Joy tagged me to do a list of 8 random facts or habits about myself. Since I've never been tagged for anything ever before, I think it's kind of exciting. I'm also the sort of person that gets a secret little parenting thrill signing up to bring something for my daughter's class parties. I know. World class dorky.

But I figure 8 things about me puts me 8 things closer to 100 so it's really win-win. I think I'm supposed to tag some other people to do the list too. I'm thinking 8. Only I'm not going to. Not because I'm lazy but because I lack blog self-esteem and I'm a low pressure sales girl. So if you do it, you do it. And if you don't you don't. But let me know if you do though. Because I'm dorky like that, too. Here's mine:

1. There were 10 people in my graduating class. No really. 10.
2. Jack Wagner once said my name. At the stage door after a Broadway show my friend got next to him for a photo. Close proximity to Frisco Jones short circuited my brain and I forgot what I was doing. The friend repeatedly said my name and told me to hurry up and take the picture. Jack himself finally got tired of waiting and called my name and told me to take the picture. I like to tell people that she may have a photo but it's my name he knows.
3. I have no depth perception.
4. I've been to 2 Barry Manilow concerts. I also liked New Kids on the Block. The NKOTB thing is much more embarrassing. I was a Joey girl.
5. I cannot remember sequences of numbers. Regardless of the significance of the numbers. It took me years to master my own social security number. I have to keep my ATM PIN number written down somewhere in my purse just in case. Please don't mug me.
6. I have an odd Rainman-esque ability to do jigsaw puzzles quickly. People think I'm exaggerating until they see me do a puzzle. I'm pretty fast. I wish this were the sort of skill that gets you a raise at work.
7. My daughter is named Georgia because that's where my husband and I met. It makes me smile every time I tell people that.
8. I threw a flaming marshmallow on my brother's arm when I was 13. My mother didn't know until 10 years later when I laughingly told the story over lunch to my brother's then girlfriend.

If you don't love Friday there's something fundamentally wrong with you

Since I only had to work 4 days this week, it feels sort of wrong to be this glad it's Friday. But I am. Really glad. It was a long week. Inside my head anyway. I'm finally starting to feel better after my bout with the bubonic plague. Although the entire left side of my head feels like it will explode when I bend over. I like to think that will go away in a few days. Kind of like how I like to think we'll one day win the lottery. I think I have a sinus infection. I think it will require sitting on hold with my insurance company and locating a primary care physician.

But those are thoughts for next week. And that's definitely a call to make from my desk at work. I can't be bothered with such things today. Today is Friday. And Fridays are awesome.

Tonight I promised my three year old we would go swimming. That was a promise made earlier today in a desperate attempt to secure her cooperation in the car. I don't even remember what she was protesting at the time. I just remember how she folded like a house of cards in the face of an opportunity to wear her swimsuit.

Tomorrow, there's more swimming on the itinerary. Assuming it doesn't rain. But I'd be okay with rain. Because Plan B is laying on the couch dozing. And I like Plan B. A lot. Which pretty much guarantees blue skies tomorrow. But that's okay. Because it's still Friday. And Fridays are awesome.

It's a wonder we ever leave the house when I am this lazy

Yesterday, I took the kids to my dad’s house and we went swimming at a pool near his house. Just leaving the house for the afternoon with a 1 year old requires packing. Add in potential swimming and I start to wonder how much I really want to go. Because I’m lazy. And I forget things. And I don’t understand how the rest of the world travels all over the place with small children because mine are just so much work outside the confines of our house. Technically they’re a lot of work within the confines of our home, too. But we own the walls in this place so if they scribble on them we don’t owe anyone anything.

Among the more high maintenance elements of traveling with my children is all the close monitoring they require. My dad’s house has stairs. They’re like baby catnip or something. Going up seems to be the real attraction. My dad solves this problem by sitting at the bottom of the stairs reading National Geographic for an hour. I’ve been a parent long enough to immediately categorize that as a short term solution. For example, what about when you need to go to the bathroom? I prefer to drag an end table over and create a blockade. I even shove some pillows in the little gap that’s left so nobody gets any bright ideas. I’m not saying it’s an impenetrable fortress. But if it gives me some lead time to flush the toilet, then it’s what I like to call, “Good enough.”

Coming home requires packing too. Doing the little once over checking for random items. Especially sippy cups. Under the couch. Behind a chair. Right in front of my nose. I wish they would invent a sippy cup attachment that lets you clap to find them. I discovered one the other day in the bottom of a hamper full of solidified milk. If they can invent battery operated crap to stick to food containers to tell you how old it is, the disappearing sippy cup phenomenon seems easy to fix.

And since we’re on the subject of sippy cups, why do the sippy cup makers not sell extra lids? I guess because they know I’ll just buy more cups to get the lids. But I don’t want the cups. All I want are the lids. I realize that they’ve got me between a rock and a hard place. I get that I’m at their mercy. So can’t they just hike the price of the replacement lids and be done with it already. My cabinets can’t hold anymore sippy cups. They’re falling out of the cabinet at us as it is. Lids, people. Lids. Get with it.

Stop conspiring against me

It’s been raining here in my area for just slightly longer than forever. One day last week it rained so hard I actually got concerned about our swimming pool potentially overflowing. I mentioned this to my brother and he asked what my plan was if it overflowed. I said I didn’t have one. I mean, I contemplated for like two minutes possibly attempting to scoop some water out and relocate it. But that seemed like a lot of work and, frankly, I couldn’t figure out anywhere to take the water anyway. I abandoned the train of thought and decided to just hope for the best. So then my brother says something about draining some water into the street by using a hose and reversing the pump. Right off the top of his head he came up with that. Dude doesn’t own a pool. Just, poof, better ideas than me.

Whatever. Who asked him anyway? Nobody needs his freaky smart ideas here. It’s like a conspiracy to prove I’m mechanically the stupidest female ever. Whatever. Who proofread your papers in college, MacGyver? Right here. There’s a reason. Suck it.

And seriously, enough with the rain.

I'm heavily infected and kinda sorta dying

I came down with the bubonic plague over the weekend. My symptoms include feeling as though I want to fling myself off a cliff and a permanent need to have my head on a pillow. I also appear to have whooping cough. I'm currently rotting my teeth sucking on cough drops to suppress my cough long enough to function like a human being.

Over the weekend, my husband worked and I did my best to attempt to care for our children. Mostly I let them destroy the house and occasionally fed them raisins.

At one point last night, I announced to my husband that I feared I was dying. He patted my arm and gave me the remote. We watched Bridezillas and he resisted the urge to comment on my endlessly stupid taste in television. Last night's episode was hard not to enjoy though. Chick's husband-to-be left her at the altar. He drops her off at her hair appointment the morning of the wedding and isn't heard from again until the next day.

The reception went on without him. Chick wandered around in her dress crying. She cut the cake by herself. She even went ahead and let the photographer do formal wedding pictures of her in the dress. By herself. Looking clinically depressed. I wouldn't have posed for the photos. I'm not even sure I would have agreed to go in the reception room. And I love me some wedding cake. That's assuming there's no open bar. Because if there was an open bar, all bets are off. I'd probably tell them to roll the bar right into my hotel room. Bartender and all.

The best part of the show was when chick's missing in action fiance called the next day and apologized. She did what any good Bridezilla would. She forgave him and eloped with him to Vegas that very day. Chicks are nuts.