It's his lucky night

My husband's in the bedroom playing chess on the computer and trying to think up ways to get out of cuddling with me later. Little does he know he'll be saved from that fate by a little thing called Project Runway. I figure I'll let him brainstorm anyway.

I'm not even sure I'm physically capable of cuddling that man tonight. My neck is currently jacked up and wreaking havoc on my ability to sit upright. I think it's because I sat in a crappy chair during the first of my three meetings today. My husband thinks it's because I sit in meetings period. He seems to think I should meet less. It's obvious that man is not in management. Because no meetings = the end of the world as we know it. Must meet. There are efficiencies to brainstorm. And my every fleeting thought to share. Someone in the other building might not know I had tacos for lunch. Quickly. Everyone to the conference room.

On top of my jacked up neck my husband and I both currently think we have sinus infections. I'm pretty sure neither of us have one. 9 times out of 10 there's nothing wrong with us that a solid night's rest under the influence of Ambien couldn't fix. We just like to describe illnesses to each other to see who's more ill. Last night, I had a migraine and just the thought of turning lights on was making me nauseous. Tonight we both had symptoms that included pressure and wanting to lay down on the floor and never get up. He tried to trump me by asking for Sudafed first. Luckily, I had the neck pain to fall back on so I won.

Although it's not whether you win or lose. It's about how many symptoms you can complain about before your spouse loses interest and walks out of the room.

Never underestimate the importance of NOT leaving the Desitin in the crib during naptime

Big mistake. Huge. And who knew it was so hard to get Desitin out of hair:

It's like Something About Mary but less gross. And people feel obligated to make clever little "Someone needs a hairbrush" comments.

Beware of the caged animal in the cute Nine West boots

Holy guacamole, I've been busy. Which I know everyone says. Except I really was. Especially at work. Like I didn't meet with enough people last week, I've been trapped like a caged animal in meetings again all this week. Yesterday, while trapped in the same conference room for no less than six hours I had to restrain myself from giving people the hurry up hand signal while they were rambling. It's called concise, people. Look into it.

The whole world needs to take three steps back and stay out of my way today. I went to bed at 9pm last night and woke up at 5 am feeling capable of scaling a tall building in a single bound while wearing cute Nine West boots I haven't felt sassy enough to wear in months. I even walked on the treadmill before I got the kids up. And then I used some sort of Svengali-esque mind control to get the aforementioned kids up and out the door in 15 minutes. I'm either operating on all cylinders or just feeling lucky. I don't really care which. Whatever gets the job done.

Despite being much too busy to handle things like blogging, dirty dishes, or stacks of laundry, I did find time to watch Project Runway. Priorities, baby. It's important to maintain them even when you're busy.

Ricky remains king of the criers. I thought his dress was nice but apparently I'm not high fashion enough to understand why it won. I'm also not high fashion enough to understand why he makes hats out of denim. Hopefully his denim hats are more attractive than the stupid mesh baseball cap he's so committed to wearing every week. It never ceases to amaze me when designers that can create such beautiful clothes dress like complete slobs all the time. Not like I don't dress like a slob 99% of the time. But then no one pays me to design pretty clothes for a living so there.

Christian is still my new best friend. Although he's been my new best friend for awhile now so maybe I should stop using the word "new" to refer to our relationship. Henceforth, he shall be known as just my best friend. And he's a total lock for the final 3 or I'll be a monkey's uncle. Because he's very talented and deserves final 3.

On the other hand, I will eat my shoe if Chris makes it to the final 3 because there's no way he deserves it. Especially since he was already eliminated once. I hadn't thought Sweet P had final 3 potential until recently but she's really coming on strong. She turned that hideous patchwork thing she started with into a thing of beauty. And Jillian needs to stop whining. So does my best friend Christian but he's my best friend so let's get off his back. To make it up to me he can bring me candy next time he comes over to paint my toe nails.

And, finally, I feel obligated to confess that I also watched part of The Rock of Love 2. Ok. Technically, I've set the DVR to record the series now. But it's not my fault this time. It's the writer's strike. There's nothing else on. What do you want from me? I've been reading a lot more too. But sometimes a girl gets tired and just wants to lay in bed with the remote in her hand. It doesn't make her a bad person. And everything else is repeats. And I can only watch Sex and the City repeats so many times before I know what's going to happen before it happens and feel my brain turning to mush. And if I'm going to turn my brain to mush anyway, what does it hurt?

My husband watched it too. So I guess if I'm going to hell for watching it at least I won't be alone. And my husband would also like everyone to know that if our daughter went on that show we would be the parents on the 10 o'clock news getting arrested for kidnapping their kid and driving her across state lines tied up in the back seat. And we're only kind of joking.

An open letter to the club

Dear Imaginary Book Club,

This month we read A Thousand Splendid Suns. It was recommended by In the Trenches of Mommyhood and Jurgen Nation. And pretty much everyone else I know that's read it for that matter. Because Khaled Hosseini is like so way talented it's almost unfair.

Sometimes I think maybe I need to drive to his house and toilet paper his yard. And maybe write something in shoe polish on the windshield of his car. The rest of the time I just wish he lived next door to me so maybe I could invite him over for dinner. Because in my head, he seems like he'd tell really good stories with a glass of wine in his hand while I'm clearing the dishes. And that would be cool.

Although I'm sure I'd blow it by rambling about how much I love his books and then he'd feel awkward and say he needed to get up early the next morning and rush out the door. And then he'd be too busy to chat whenever we'd see him going to the mailbox and then he'd pretty much never speak to us again and then my husband would let our dogs go to the bathroom in his yard and refuse to pooper scoop just to teach him a lesson. Not that we're like that. I'm just saying it's sort of how it might go down. Because I really like his writing.

A Thousand Splendid Suns is Hosseini's second book and like his first one, Kite Runner, it's set in Afghanistan. It tells the story of 2 girls. One of the girls is born to an unwed mother and her life is the equivalent of the short end of the stick. The other girl has a pretty good life going until everything goes to hell in a hand basket. And eventually their lives intersect.

One of the most impressive things to me about Hosseini's writing is that he can make a place I consider very foreign to me feel really familiar. Even though I've never been to Afghanistan and know very little bit about it, he makes it feel like an old friend. But he does it without making the book feel like a travel book or a history lesson. And it's a quick read. I started it before bed one night intending to read one chapter and I ended up reading 79 pages.

The thing that will linger with me the most from this book is how lucky I am as woman not to have lived under the Taliban. I'm a modern girl with lots of loud mouthed opinions. As I read about the rules that restricted women under the Taliban I wondered how I would have handled it. My first thought was that I'd be dead. I just didn't know how it would happen. Because I'm sure I would have committed infractions and gotten in trouble so maybe they'd have shot me. But I also figure I'd be so miserable I'd want to kill myself.

Except somewhere along the way I wondered if I wouldn't be like the rest of the women there and just learn to deal with it and hope it improves. Especially if you have children. Because children are such a powerful motivator. I know I couldn't leave mine. So I guess I'd just stay. And that makes me sad. Sad that people are stuck like that. What would I be willing to endure to protect my kids? What if my husband made me take my kid to an orphanage so he wouldn't have to pay to feed them? What if my husband was a total scumbag and I couldn't stand the sight of his face but he's all I had? Stuck and powerless. That's what the women are. It's powerful to think about.

A Thousand Splendid Suns is a very good book. I was genuinely surprised on page 293. I wasn't the least bit surprised on page 311 and I liked the ending a lot. I don't know that I liked it better than Kite Runner though. I gave Kite Runner to my mother to read when she asked me to loan her a good book. And it's still the book I'd give her. But I'd tell her to read A Thousand Splendid Suns, too.

And because good things are meant to be shared I'm giving it away. Free. Even shipping. Honest. Just ask Heather who won my free copy of The Glass Castle and is already halfway through the book and loving it.

So if you want a lovely used hardback copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns leave a comment and say so by Saturday, January 26th. That's all you have to do.

Next up, the Imaginary Book Club is reading Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. Christine at Sippy Cups and Blackberries claims it's better than Kite Runner. I know. Them there are strong words. We'll be the judge of that. And by we, I mean, the Imaginary Book Club. And by Imaginary Book Club, I mean me. So I'll let you know. But the possibility has me excited.

Hugs and kisses,
Me

Maybe I should hold a meeting to discuss the meetings I'm going to make fun of herein

This was a long week. I can't recall the last time I've been this glad it's Saturday. I think 75% of my time at work this week was spent in meetings. Everyone and their uncle needed to meet to chat about something. Some of the meetings went nowhere and lasted 7 hours. Some of the meetings reached a consensus quickly but then people felt the need to beat a dead horse for another 2 hours. I got no problem meeting with you. But if we're all in agreement, peace out, dude.

By far the most insane meeting though has to be the meeting to talk about an upcoming meeting. I got invited to one of those this week. I chuckled and asked if we were in fact meeting to talk about meeting. No one else seemed to think that was funny. Like I care. Don't say crazy stuff to me and expect me not to tell you it's crazy. And don't forget to raise your hand and volunteer for some stuff either. Because it annoys me to no end when the point of the meeting is to brainstorm ideas but then no one wants to expend even one iota of energy to implement the ideas.

But that's okay, because I'm really good at pointing out people that have no tasks assigned to them and diplomatically getting them volunteered. It's all about maneuvering. Maneuvering I will gladly do out loud in the middle of the meeting. I figure they shouldn't invite me to the meeting if they don't want me to open my mouth. It's one of my best features. Unless you're my colleague trying to skate through without getting any extra work. Because in that case, I probably annoy you. I file that under the general heading of "Oh, well."

The other reason this was a long week was because I was on morning duty with my kids again. My husband usually handles that but he's been going into work early. I'm a little rusty on how to get everyone up and out the door in a reasonable amount of time. I think the kids sense my rustiness and feed on it. Or in the case of my 18 month old, he just screams a lot.

I think it has a lot to do with the fact they have to wake up earlier than usual. But that doesn't really make me feel any better when I'm in the daycare parking lot climbing into the backseat of the car attempting to drag my 18 month old out. He was playing some fun game that involves climbing back and forth between the seats. That's cute when it's a scene in a movie. It's less cute when you're wearing nice slacks and running late.

Thursday morning I figured out how to beat him at his own game by faking like I was going to go for the front seat only to snatch him out of the back. Except he wasn't impressed with my victory and began wailing in protest. Being the veteran mother that I am, I tucked that wailing kid right under one arm and picked up two backpacks and a pack of diapers in the other. And then I walked to the door like there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Behind me, the newest 4 year old trailed along weeping about the McDonald's pancakes she might have gotten if the McDonald's drive thru hadn't been nine deep and not moving when we drove by. I'm sure all the other mothers that witnessed us walking to the door were either horrified or deeply sympathetic. I didn't really want to know which so I mostly avoided making eye contact.

At the front door, I dropped the pack of diapers while trying to get the door open. Rather than attempt to bend down and get them without dropping anything else, I just kicked them through the door with my foot. I could try to characterize it as sliding them. I could try to tell you I was subtle about it. But the truth is I just kicked them. And I may have chucked the backpacks in ahead of me too. I can't remember. OK. I can. And I probably did. But I'm telling you I could feel the veins in my head about to burst and that squirming 18 month old weighs a lot and I was late for an important meeting and I couldn't figure out what I did so wrong to deserve that madness and oh my word it was insane.

This is the stuff they don't write about in the parenting books. The moments that make you want to fling yourself head first into a wood chipper. The moments you count yourself lucky to get through without shrieking at anyone. And that's why I'm glad this week is over. I'm hoping to be less rusty next week.

The beanie babies have left the building

I've been storing 2 boxes of beanie babies in our garage for two years now. Before that, I stored them in a closet. And before that I stored them in another closet across town. My husband's been interested in parting with them since the moment he saw them. I've drug my feet for any number of reasons. Partially because I blew a stack of cash on them. Partially because they remind me of a single girl in the world happy period in my life. And partially because they're cute:

That's Chocolate the moose. And he lives somewhere else as of Sunday. And I'm okay with it. Because professional organizer Peter Walsh says, if he was sitting in a box for 7 years now I must not love him as much as I thought I did. And just because I blew a big stack of cash accumulating him and his 74 other friends doesn't mean I have to keep them til the end of time. Sometimes you blow money on stupid stuff. Accept it and move on. And drop the stupid stuff off at Goodwill so someone else can enjoy it.

I took pictures to commemorate them though. Here are the two boxes of beanie babies I blew a stack of cash on:

Here they are spread out just in case the boxes made it look like there weren't that many:

Look, I even had the ones from McDonald's:

Because you're not a real collector until you've driven around town trying to locate the Maple bear to complete your International Mini Bear Collection. I don't even think I thought they'd be worth anything either. I mean, I'm not a total idiot. And yet, I left them in the original packaging. So how diseased was my brain? And why do I still think they are so very, very cute? I guess because they are:

But it's okay for them to be cute somewhere else now. Because the New Year New Me doesn't need them to be happy.

I am packing tape. Hear me roar.

Dude. Wanna hear something funny? I signed up for Blog365 back in December. It's like NamBloPoMo except 12 times longer because you're supposed to post everyday. That's crazy. It boggles the mind that I thought I could do that. I didn't mention to anyone that I signed up for it either. Subconsciously I must have known I was full of crap. 10 days in I proved my subconscious right. I suffered a complete power failure inside my head and couldn't think of a single thing I wanted anyone else to read. So I watched Project Runway instead. And then I took 4 days off to reboot my brain. What on Earth was I thinking?

Speaking of Project Runway, how much do you want to bet Christian's prom dress girl thinks to this day there was nothing wrong with the way she behaved. Like it's okay to be demanding and difficult and potentially get someone eliminated. We're talking about a stupid prom dress versus someone's life dream. So get over yourself. No one thought it was cute or funny. We all just thought you were annoying. Because Christian is my new best friend and I'm not prepared to let you and all your freaky demands for lace ruin it for him.

Whatever. I'd love to write more, but tomorrow morning I've got an early rendezvous with several colleagues to think outside the box again. I'm so outside the box I'm the packing tape holding the freaking thing together. Ideas are practically oozing out my pores at this point. Unfortunately, I have several colleagues that are the human equivalent of grease in my pores and I'm all out of Stridex. I'll need a good night's rest to prevent me from flinging Dr. Pepper in their faces while they choke the life blood out of every good idea. Later!

Things My Children Have Actually Said to Me

"You're not a whore, Momma. You're a Care Bear."

On the bright side, at least my 4 year old doesn't think I'm a whore. On the downside, yeah, well, pretty much the whole thing. Although it's funny. But not water cooler conversation funny. Because people inevitably want to know where she picked up the word "whore." Whatever. Like they've never amused themselves by calling their spouse a whore. And they'd probably have me believe their spouse's imaginary girlfriend doesn't have a name either. Nice try. I wasn't born yesterday. I know normal.

Awesome doesn't need a bullhorn

I love people that think the world revolves around them. Like that person at your work that wants to tell you that everything that happens anywhere is a direct result of some action on their part. And they have whole narrative explanations to spew at you just in case you're not aware of the direct correlation between them and the parting of the Red Sea last week.

Today, I got cornered by a coworker who proceeded to explain to me for the third time in a week how they are in fact the greatest thing since sliced bread. I don't have a problem with people being awesome. Because if you are, that's cool. Way to be. I just think it's unlikely you need to tell people quite that often. Because if you're awesome, people know. Awesome generally doesn't need a bullhorn to announce its presence.

What does need a bullhorn however is feigned excitement over mediocre ideas. Because otherwise the higher ups might not know that you think they are the greatest thing since sliced bread. And it's important they know that. Everyday. Go, team! At least they served cookies during all the sucking up today. I'm in favor of mandatory refreshments for all meetings that last over 30 minutes. Refreshments with a high fat and sugar content are preferred. And it'd be nice if there was icing involved. But I'm flexible. And I'll handle the publicity.

In my head, it's Friday and my kid is 18 months old

Ever had one of those weekends where you get to the end of the weekend and you can’t believe you’re expected to go to work tomorrow because what the hell you’re tired. Because, dude, you just spent your whole weekend cleaning your pig sty of a house and your two small kids kept bickering over the same book and the same spatula and the same duck and the same piece of cookie and where did all the candy wrappers come from on the living room floor because you thought you put the child proof lock on the cabinet with the candy and, no, you didn’t throw away your husband’s electric toothbrush in a Peter Walsh induced de-cluttering fit. Your 18 month old hid it in the bottom of a hamper. So there. And so what if that kid’s turned two and you’re still calling him your 18 month old. You’re his mother. You like calling him 18 months old. That might be weird when he’s 6 but the kid’s only 2. It’s perfectly normal to take a while to make these transitions in your head. So deal with it. Because I had one of those weekends is what I’m trying to say.

I cleaned the kitchen Saturday. This included de-cluttering drawers, large amounts of Lysol wipes, and a mop. I know. Even I can’t believe I mopped. I hate mopping. My back hurts just thinking about it. But I did. And it looks awesome. And my husband better not crap up the counter with any coffee drippings and bagel crumbs or I might just feel obligated to behead him or something. I mean, I love him, but the kitchen looks stellar and crapping it up would be wrong.

Sunday I got up and did the whole thing over again in the bathroom. Toilet, tub, floor. I even wiped the baseboards. I rule.

Of course, now I can’t figure out why I have to be at work. Because, I’m worn out and that means it must be Friday. Except it’s not. It’s Monday. And I didn’t get our Christmas decorations down either. Which was my #1 goal for the weekend which is apparently now going to be my #1 goal for next weekend. If I cared, I might be concerned about the newest 4 year old plugging in the lights all week to showcase for the neighborhood what slackers we are. Luckily, I don't

Besides it’s only the second week of January. I’ve got a good two or three weeks before that becomes genuinely embarrassing.

There are few things quite as attractive as a man willing to lay on the floor and watch Cinderella with his daughter. Twice.

He claims she was scared of the mean cat in the movie. I say he's a big old marshmallow. Luckily, I happen to like marshmallows. A lot. That's hot.

The Glass Castle for Vice President

I loved Kite Runner so much I nominated it for President. Upon finishing The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls I realized maybe Kite Runner could use a running mate to kiss babies and glad handle voters. Because, wow is that book good, too.

The Glass Castle is a memoir of the author's childhood. She was one of four kids, her father was an alcoholic and her family was very, very poor. But not in a minimum wage working class kind of way. And not in a living on welfare sort of way either. Her parents just didn’t seem to see anything wrong with having no money and living in squalor. A bucket in the kitchen was the toilet. Her brother slept under an inflatable raft because the roof leaked. They had no heat in West Virginia in the winter. Her whole childhood was like that. Holy cow.

Her mother had a teaching degree, too. She was able bodied and qualified for employment. She just chose not to get a job the majority of the time. Her father drank and smoked away most of the money he managed to make when he had a job. To say I find her rise to a normal and successful life inspiring is an understatement.

I once gave my mom a hard time for giving me a box of bras for my birthday. I was 17. I guess they didn't seem fun and birthday-ish. I am officially an ungrateful whore. Because this girl caught her mother secretly eating Hershey bars and gaining weight while she and her siblings were literally starving. Combing through trash cans for food starving. Like high school's not hard enough. Try doing it without bathing, in ratty clothes and starving. Oh, and you live in a hovel. What the hell. That's all I could think. Just what the hell.

The Glass Castle is stunning. I thought the writing was really good but but it's the story itself that really took my breath away. It puts homelessness and poverty into a new light. And the parents aren't just one dimensional villains. It'd be easier if they were. But they really do seem to love their kids in their own way. Their way is just really different. And flawed. Terribly flawed.

Upon finishing the book, I immediately scoured the internet for more information about the author. I think I was hoping the book was a memoir a la James Frey and maybe parts of it were fictional. Which of course wasn't the case. I found an interesting article in which Jeannette Walls discusses the book. It includes a discussion about whether the mother is selfish. Walls seems to think her mother was egocentric as opposed to selfish. She describes her mother as very childlike. The way a kid only thinks of themselves and has to be taught to consider others. But isn't that the very definition of selfish? Thinking of yourself and only yourself? And I think she knew she was being selfish. She just didn't care. She hid the candy bars under her blanket when she was eating them for a reason. Because she knew it was wrong.

I seriously could not let go of that. I could forgive staying with an alcoholic husband. I could forgive not wanting to go on welfare. I could even forgive being slightly insane. But I really couldn't have gotten past being self absorbed. She was reading books all day. And painting. And her kids are starving. Once more with feeling, what the hell.

Kite Runner is still the best book I've read lately. But The Glass Castle is a close second. It's awesome. It will linger with you in a way that says you can be anything you want to be and to hell with what kind of childhood you had.

I'm still busy decluttering my house with the help of Peter Walsh and his book It's All Too Much. He hasn't convinced me to part with the 2 boxes of useless beanie babies yet but he has convinced me I don't need to cling to great books. So I've decided to start giving away my Imaginary Book Club selections when I'm done reading them. The Glass Castle will be first. Free. Even the shipping. No strings attached. All you have to do is want it. And not mind that it's a used copy.

So leave a comment if you want it. If by some miracle I have more than one reader that hasn't read it yet, I'll randomly draw a winner. I guess I should be all official like and give a deadline so the book won't sit here gathering dust like my priceless beanie baby collection. I'll give the Internet until midnight Saturday January 12th to claim my free shipping and handling used copy of The Glass Castle. No takers and it goes the way of the beanie babies. Which will hopefully be Goodwill if Peter has his way.

Oh, and the Imaginary Book Club is reading A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini next. It was recommended by In the Trenches of Mommyhood and Jurgen Nation. I'm 79 pages in and already wondering where it's been all my life. Way to be.

Secrets from our marital bathroom

One of the idiotic games I like to play with my husband is stalking him around the house. I used to just periodically trail along behind him going from room to room. Eventually I upped the ante and began appearing in the shower behind him fully clothed.

My husband enjoys his bathroom. If this house is his castle, the toilet is his throne. He reads in there. Makes phone calls. Assembles bookcases with one hand in the dark while curing cancer.

He also likes to announce when he's going to visit the throne. It's generally sometime after dinner. When the newest 4 year old was little she'd follow him in there. Then one day it seemed like a funny joke to cram our entire household into the tiny bathroom with them. Two dogs, two kids and me. The Rottweiler put his face in my husband's lap while I stood over him discussing the weather.

It became a running joke. We called them Family Meetings and the newest 4 year old would periodically announce them and gather the dogs up herself. And sometimes she'd run ahead to make sure we didn't get locked out:

The lock on our hall bathroom door is very difficult to pick. Not that I've tried. Or succeeded. I'm just saying if someone was going to pick that lock it looks like it'd be pretty hard. It might even require taking the entire doorknob off. Just saying.

Although banging on the door is fun, it doesn't always work. So one time we wrote a note and slid it under the door. Sort of like a ransom note. Only without any kidnappers or requests for money. So really it's nothing like a ransom note but it was funny. So we taped it to the back of the bathroom door for posterity:

Nothing says "Hang out at our house!" like weird notes taped to the back of the bathroom door. Fortunately, we're practically recluses so it's not a problem. Although my in-laws did stay with us last week. But they're very familiar with our special brand of crazy and that note is the least of their worries.

I have front row seats for Princess-palooza

The newest 4 year old just came by to show me a strand of tinsel garland. She says she's going to wear it when she marries the prince and goes to live at the castle. I think I may have thrown up a little in my mouth. And part of me may or may not have wanted to stab my eyes out.

I wasn't built to feign interest in princess crap. Which is most likely why the newest 4 year old had never seen a Disney princess movie until Monday. But her father decided it was time to start Princess-palooza so he screened Cinderella while I was at work. There has been much discussion about Prince Charming ever since. And much leveraging of the movie. Gee, you'd like to watch Cinderella? Huh, I seem to recall seeing clothes on the floor in your bedroom.

Although, quite frankly, we've got keeping the bedroom clean under control. Someone who shall remain nameless told the newest 4 year old that Santa likes you to keep your room clean. She even explained that Santa can come back and get the princess dress he delivered if he finds out your room is messy. Ok. And I might have told her we have Santa's phone number and we're not afraid to use it. Whatever. Nothing to see, people. Move along.

At least there were no eye stabbing thoughts while I was at work today. Which is surprising since I was trapped behind closed doors for many hours with my coworkers while we attempted to "think outside the box." When we were done with that we attempted to reinvent the wheel. I love meetings. No really. I do.

The New Year New Me is attempting to fine tune her plans for the year. I think I've narrowed my goals to:

1. Rid the house of anything that isn't useful or beautiful
2. Prep house to be sold or rented
3. Spend less time contemplating stabbing my eyes out
4. Shrink. Preferably my butt.
5. Find a better bath pillow
6. Exercise

I might paint my toe nails too. With glitter polish. Because glitter polish is the equivalent of sprinkles on your donut and I'm all about sprinkles. I'll have to see if I feel sprinkle-y. I'll keep you posted.

He and the master bathroom aren't getting any younger

My master bathroom has been under construction for a full year now. I know this because I recently baked my husband a football shaped birthday cake:

See, he made the mistake of starting the renovation on his birthday. It's made it easy for everyone he knows to track exactly how long he's been working on it. That would a full year now. Did I mention that?

Back in August when my husband finished the tile work, I joked that we might have a toilet in there by the end of the year. That makes me laugh just thinking about it. Mostly because there’s no toilet in there right now. There is however a lovely shower stall:

No fixtures or shower head of course. Perfection can't be rushed. Besides, if our master bathroom had a functioning shower I wouldn't get the privilege of sharing a shower with 18 miniature rubber ducks that seemed like a funny Christmas present for a new 2 year old.

The shower doors were installed three days before my husband's birthday. The day before his birthday he and his dad installed baseboards:

Then they worked well into the evening on wainscoting:

Me thinks the looming one year anniversary may have inspired him. Unfortunately, a wall problem had to be fixed before the wainscoting could go in. A drywall related wall problem that involved spackle, drying, sanding, painting and fraying every last bit of my husband’s patience. But at least the wainscoting is cut, fitted and waiting in the wings to go in. I look forward to it going in. Not because I care about it getting done quickly but because it’s currently blocking my ability to get dressed:

See the red thing behind the wainscoting boards. That's a dolly. This morning I stepped on the bottom front part of it in the dark on the way to my closet. It whacked me full in the face. And to think I worried about tripping over the giant compressor next to my side of the bed:

Silly me. Almost as silly as standing on the bed to take a photo of wainscoting blocking your closet and getting hit in the head by the ceiling fan. It's hard to believe anything could hurt more than the dolly to the face but you'd be surprised how solid those ceiling fan blades are. I informed the newest 4 year old of my head injury only to have her tell me, "That's what you get for standing on the bed." From the mouths of babes.

New Year. New Me.

New Year. New me. It's not a New Year's resolution. It's a goal. I just picked New Year's for the start date. Last year was a difficult year. I mean, it wasn't all bad. But it wasn't great. I felt like I was sliding downhill and couldn't find my footing to stop the slide. I felt like I lost a little bit of myself. Maybe it didn't even happen last year. Maybe it happened before that and I just hadn't noticed. But I know I like the old me better than the new me.

The old me was really organized and had a memory. She made idiotically detailed lists of things to do and visualed making them happen. And then she did. She fit in more than one pair of jeans and would never have considered hanging onto a pair of maternity shorts because they were the only comfortable pair she owned. She was also way funnier than the new me. And she would never have gone to bed before midnight last night. I miss her.

I need to get a grip on things. Crying in my car while I ate a McDonald's ice cream cone was not good. I kinda sort of don't even respect that girl. Laying in the bathtub wondering if I'm manic depressive was only slightly worse. I mean, I don't think I am. I'm just sort of floundering. And some days I scrape myself off the floor better than others. But identifying mood swings in yourself is disturbing.

I contemplated not even writing about all this. It's always sort of depressing to tell people you feel like you need to make a life change. Especially putting it in writing. Because what if you get derailed and fail? Then it's there for everyone to see.

But I decided I'm okay with that. It's important to be honest. Like people who say they're okay with their weight but refuse to reveal numbers or pants size. If it's who you are and you've accepted it, talking about it shouldn't be a problem. It's okay to have struggles. It's okay to be trying to find your way. I am. This year. New Year. New Me. Here's hoping. No. Better yet. Here's planning.