Judith Shakespeare, a product of far too much coffee, far too many romance novels, and an embarrassing weakness for pretty boys with guitars, is (in no particular order nor fact) a mother, a wife, a taker of pictures, a designer, a butcher, abuser of the ellipses, a baker, a candlestick maker, professional wordmakerupper, and consummate dropper of f-bombs… This is her blog.
I just received and email from mint.com letting me know that the balance in my Chase account is “low”, and that I should “proceed with caution“.
I balanced that account earlier this morning.
And was so thrilled that I had that much money leftover after paying bills that I actually called my sister to brag.
Damn you, technology.
The Spawn of Shakespeare and I find ourselves spending a questioningly healthy amount of time bonding over various episodes, new and repeated, of Bones.
And I keep asking myself whether or not the show is entirely appropriate for children…
On one hand, they can name the majority of the bones in the skeletal system, know how to use fabric softener to restore dehydrated appendages, and can recognize all of the occupational markers of being a violinist.
On the other, they’re starting to appear awfully unaffected by the sight of a rotting corpse.
And here I thought that when they told me motherhood would be about making the tough decisions, they were talking about things like breastfeeding or spanking or cloth-diapering…
You know…
Trivial shit.
Let’s play a little game of Judith’s Favorite Thing in the Picture, shall we?
The rules are really simple; just tell me which of the things in the above picture is the thing that I like the best. Don’t be fooled, though, this is not as easy as it seems.
Is it…
1. The rustic-esque $3 “Wine by the glass” tin serving tray that magically turns the wicker basket in my livingroom into a nifty tabletop.
2. My lovely cup of café au lait that makes my day that much brighter.
3. The irony behind the text message from God telling me that I should consider therapy.
Winners will receive absolutely nothing other than the right to do a winner’s dance at will.
Naked if you’d prefer*.
Or, if you’re anything like me, at least with a bra on.
*By commenting below, participants agree to hold Judith and any/all of her personalities blameless for any embarrassment, youtube videos, pregnancy, birth, death, cravings, homework, burns, blindness, sudden liking of pop music, or injury that may occur while dancing nude.I now have a *not* unprecedented urge to go out and spend all of my allowance on hot pink fishnets and roller skates.
Wanna come?
I turned thirty in September.
To my credit, I didn’t overly freak out as one might expect someone on the verge of being soundly routed from that decade epitomized by both the freedom of youth and the joys of full-fledged adulthood to do. Although, I’ll admit, I may have spent many a moment while at a bachelor-ette party the weekend before (a final hurrah, if you would, to prove that I could still toss back nearly a rent payment’s worth of cheap vodka and expensive tequila, crawl into bed after the rooster’s crow, and still survive to tell about it) adamantly insisting to friends, old and new alike, that I would not be having another birthday and that twenty-nine was a perfectly acceptable age to… well… stop aging. Read the rest of this entry »
Today, The Baby turns four.
She has asked for “birfday coffee, birfday sushi, and birfday strawberrrrry cake”.
My job here is obviously done.
Kid, you’ll move mountains.
We should probably get this clear right off the bat…
I am not above pinching my children.
Hard.
Yes, I can see that you are on a date of some sort, and I, for one, am simply thrilled- thrilled- that your many hours of cyber-wooing paid off in the form of a real live girl willing to suffer through your 15 minute monologues on the joy of whatever it is that jerks your chain these days while partaking of the super-swanky “2 can eat for $20″ meal spread across the table before you…
And, yes, I understand that my child’s high pitched laughter, born of the joy of having a brother whose pre-appetizer performance consists of sticking a straw up his nose, isn’t always considered a delightful sound to someone without children such as yourself…
But if you send so much as one more dirty look in my direction…
I am not above pinching my children.
And moving their chairs closer in order for you to be upfront and center for a drama-filled toddler breakdown, complete with mountains of snot, rivers of tears, and the occasional stomp and/or kick or two.
Hell, I’m not even certain that I’m above having them fling said snot and tears at you and your nifty metr0-sexual pre-ripped jeans while your date and her cute shoes look on in sheer horror.
So how about we stop all this mess before it starts…
I’ll get back to the second act of the illustrious straw-up-the-nose performance now in progress…
My children can get back to being children as children ought…
And you?
You can walk away from this whole experience snot-free and (perhaps) wise enough to recognize the perils of dining in any restaurant that serves crayons with their menus.
M’kay?
click to enlarge
I am utterly fascinated by validation phrases.
They’re like little messages from god…
on a stick.
Not as appetizing as alligator on a stick, mind you…
But the potential to be fulfilling is definitely there.