Ah… it finally made sense.

That odd little disclaimer at the beginning, the one that had made me pause countless times over the years, the thing that I never understood but was too excited by what came next to stop and fully ponder…

It finally made complete and total sense.

And it was horrible.

At first, I was too aware of the box-cutter in my hand to really pay attention to what she was explaining. The thing, with its hunter-safety orange plastic outfit and  grimy little razor-blade  that was never actually sharp enough to cut through the tougher cardboard but still quite sufficient at slicing off a bit of flesh here and there, was always accompanied by a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was far too clumsy to handle such things with grace and ease. And it knew it.

I followed her down the aisle, stopping here and there to tidy up or to discuss the latest plot, the newest intrigue. We’d been the best of  friends for over a decade, the nuances of her speech as familiar to me as the back of my own hand. As we headed to the front of the store, nothing in her voice that day gave away the nightmare that was to come. Later, after it was all said and done, I’d look back and recognize the play there. After all, we’d been the best of friends for over a decade. She knew my predictable reaction to such things as well as the back of her hand. The sense of betrayal was overwhelming.
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Alright, I’ll say it…

My breasts are starting to become a problem.

As much as I love the Betty and the Bertha (Bertha being the larger and decidedly more aggressive one- the alpha tit, if you will), I do believe that they may be the culprits behind my back aches and subsequent old lady groans.

Plus, if the amount of crumbs that fall about my feet when I finally let the girls out for their nightly free range romps are any indication, they’ve begun storing away food for the winter.

And, even you, dear reader, must admit…

It’s not that big of a leap from food hoarding to world domination.

The following resolutions are in no particular order. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

1. Eat less.
2. Drink more.
3. Faithfully log and keep track of household appliances.
4. Learn a new skill.
5. Forget an old [unnecessary] one.
6. Pick up my camera at least once a day.
7. And take pictures with it. (I think it best to be specific in this instance.)
8. Be less stubborn about the little things.
9. More so about the big ones.
10. Create & adhere to business hours.
11. Blog more often.
12. For real this time.
13. Reevaluate my worth.
14. Price accordingly.
15. Cut back on the Diet Coke.
16. Consider doing so on the coffee.
17. Stop feeling guilty.
18. Stop feeling obligated.
19. Pay more attention to friends.
20. Less attention to non-friends.
21. Meditate every day.
22. Twice on the more frustrating ones.
23. Laugh more.
24. Cry more.
25. Buy waterproof mascara.
26. Wear pretty shoes more often- stop settling for the flats.
27. Take more chances.
28. Have more faith.
29. Chill.The.Fuck.Out.
30. Appreciate everything just a little more.
31. Finally do the thing that you should have done ages ago…

See you in 2010.

Of peace on Earth, good will to men!

Here’s to hoping that you & yours shared a truly lovely day. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and any other sayings that  may be applicable.

Took the kids over the weekend to see the new *gasp* animated Disney film… Dinner, tickets, and snacks for 5 (three of which are children-like creatures) ended up costing just under a hundred bucks.

There is something just plain wrong with that.

[Flash to evil corporate meisters bah humbugging into their triple espressos while climbing up step-ladders  into their pretty monster cars.]

While there, The Baby tripped over her own feet and fell on her face in front of god and sundry.

Unfortunately, I’m afraid that she gets her grace from me.

But, then again, I’m more afraid that she gets her eyebrows from her daddy…

So she’ll still love me more.

And that’s what counts.

In other holiday news…

I haven’t mailed out our Christmas cards… Of course, I haven’t. To expect me to do something like that in a timely fashion is just plain silly. I have a nice pile of cards just sitting in the van awaiting a no doubt traumatic ride through the postal system.

To defer their suffering and save some face, I’ve come to the conclusion that having them delivered after Christmas is quirky.

And I’m at least quirky, right?

But I did finish up the majority of my shopping last night. (For things that I didn’t order online for whatever reason, I plan a last minute 2am run to the Wal-Mart every year in order to avoid both the crowds and the inevitable smell that comes along with them.) While there, I somehow ended up having a 30 minute conversation with a drunk lady about:

• her teenager’s shopping list
• their ages, their attitudes, their boyfriend/girlfriend’s names, how much they weighed at birth, and the color of the walls in their rooms
• her sister’s weight at birth (she was delivered at 7 months and weighed 4 and some odd pounds)
• the better wrapping paper
• the better cream cheese
• the fact that her husband buys the wrong cream cheese
• her choice of perfume
• her daughter’s choice of perfume
• her aunt’s best friend’s choice of perfume
• green beans
• The Saints
• the fact that she once lost $200 in a slot machine with a mermaid on it

This was all done in the check-out lane at four in the morning… amongst the two open cashiers (both on those little half-lanes that don’t have a belt)  and the sixteen other people who thought themselves as brilliant in planning as I. Or did I think myself as brilliant as they? Or…  nevermind.

My brain is obviously a big puddle of peppermint hershey kisses.

Just like that bulge in my stomach.

And that taste at the back of my throat offering up a clear warning of what will happen if I eat one more.

Which I will, of course.

Because I’m clearly an ungraceful, procrastinating, looks like she wants to hear your life story stuttered over a cloud of berry-whatever Arbor Mist in the checkout lane, hershey-kiss-eating FREAK.

With good eyebrows.

Who is currently off to yack up that last kiss.

(I simply hope that, like ice cream, peppermint isn’t too terrible coming back up.)

I am so busy that I’m bored.

I understand that that doesn’t make sense in any other forum other than the one currently in my head.

But it is what it is.

And I am what I am.

Bored.

A few months ago, I found myself in the same small bed in the same small bedroom in the same small town that I grew up in, and I thought,

Oh God… What in the hell happened here?

It’s raining in Louisiana.

It’s always raining here.

Yesterday, the children were told that there was a possibility of  snow.

My eldest came home and shared the news.

He looked at me as a parent would a child who knows no better and reminded me of that conversation that we had several weeks ago in which I somberly informed him that there would be no snow here. I’d only seen three small flakes in my entire childhood, after all.

It’s not snowing, of course.

It’s raining.

It’s always raining here.

And I’m bored.

And I need to get out of here.

Out of this town, out of this skin, out of this little box that breathes my breath back onto me…

Suffocating is only as fun as you make it, you know.

I need to find paragraphs again, I think. And semi-proper punctuation.

Or perhaps I should blog more often-

and abuse…

ellipses…

until…

the paragraphs find me instead.

When I have too much to do and therefore nothing, I do silly things.

Like cutting my own hair.

I obsess over the tiny weirdness-es for a few moments,

Oh God… What in the hell happened here?

And then I shrug.

Because who really cares about my hair anyhow? Hair grows back.

Eventually.

I just have to wait.

In boredom.

There’s more to this, I’m sure.

I should find it… or let it find me.

New year’s a’coming. I’m resolving to resolve to drink more and eat less.

This boredom would wash down a bit easier then, methinks.

Mehopes.

And I could blame any future incoherent ramblings on the vodka.

As a matter of fact…

Let me make a quick trip to the freezer.

That way you can come back and read this again tomorrow, and we can blame this one on the vodka as well.

Sound good?

My sister and I argue a lot.

Usually it’s over a misplaced movie quote or a she was totally in that other film, she just had a different nose sort of thing…

But mostly it’s over who tried to kill the other last or who’s turn it is to make coffee.

Thankfully, however, there’s an app for that.

(Not the killing part, of course, because I totally think that throwing that glass light fixture at my face totally trumps me shoving a handful of jelly beans down her six-week-old throat. Which totally makes me the nicer sister. So neener.)

You simply make a list, add some people, give it a shake, and then it randomly chooses a person to get off of their lazy ass and make a fresh pot, clean the litterbox, or yell at a kid.

It also picks blog giveaway winners.

Because I  use paperclips to hold my hair up am a  repurposing goddess like that.

My thumb! My thumb!

I only count four fingers here... Alright who stole my freaking finger??

Congratulations, hon. I'll email over your details in a bit.

Speaking of Irish guys…

Somehow my quick trip to the bookstore on Friday night ended up with me hanging out at a little bar that once claimed decorating fame via the numerous over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders hanging from its smoky old ceiling…

One of which belonged to me…

Back in the day when the only thing I had to spend my money on was booze and outrageously expensive lingerie.

(And since I was obviously the type of girl who tacks up her bra to dingy bar ceilings, the booze more often than not came pretty damn cheap…)

As I was sitting there sipping on my Newcastle watching peeps play a rousingly boring game of ‘find the difference in these two pictures of porn stars’, I realized that I probably spent more on that bra ten years ago than I have so far this year in GROCERIES FOR A FAMILY OF FIVE.

I am currently deciding on how to close the letter demanding its return…

Because I’m fairly certain that “Sincerely,” just won’t cut it in this situation.

And in other news that totally sucks…

It’s eighty freakin’ degrees outside and my super-hot-sexy (yes, that’s one word) winter boots are taunting me mercilessly. I can hear them snickering, I tell ‘ya.

My bank account has decided to send me twice-daily awfully cheery text messages letting me know that I’m broke.

And considering that all of the lights in the back half of my old (though charming) house abruptly stopped working and the little bar that connects the lever to the drain in my bathtub suddenly split in two all in one week, I think it’s pretty safe to say that my luck holds true  in all things in this world.

Happy bloody Monday, folks.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that free stuff may make Tuesdays a little better (This is the part where I get to quote myself, awesome, isn’t it?):

I dread- DREAD – Mondays. Tuesdays are much worse, however, as they tend to completely ruin the giddiness leftover by getting through a dreary Monday by still being four whole freaking days away from the weekend. Meh.

So, in order to make your Tuesdays a little less meh and a little more yeah [insert cheesy drum roll and cymbal clash here], I’m going to try to give you something nifty *each* week.

Now, for the handful of you who read my blog on a regular basis (the handful of all that is awesome and kickass in this world, of course), you totally know that I’m a complete flake and that the little asterisks around the “each” in that mouthful above were there for a reason…

Specifically-

To let anyone who is not aware of the flakiness of my being to become aware of said flakiness and not expect consistency of any sort whatsoever.

In other words, the word “each”  in this case could actually probably sometimes and most likely means…

“Every other week”

or

“Every three weeks”

or

“Look I gave you something that one time, didn’t I???”

And yet…

Here it is…

A Tuesday.

And I have something for you.

[How 'ya like them apples, Matt Damon?]

Last week, I was invited to join an online community and forum for amateur, hobbyist, and professional women photographers called ClickinMoms.  The site is super-cute (technical term), is a little over a year old, and has over 4,000 members who all share a love of photography—

That’s a lot of good minds in one place, I tell ‘ya.

So many good minds, in fact, that I’ve only just barely skimmed through the knowledge and support that such a like-minded community has to offer…

So far, I’ve found countless threads full of useful and fabulous information on how to start your own photography business, where to find the best post processing tools, exclusive vendor discounts and group buys, posing suggestions, photo critique, reviews and suggestions… Quite frankly, I think that you’d be pretty hard-pressed to find another site geared specifically to women and moms and PHOTOGRAPHY than this one.

I’m totally in love.

That said, I’ve got a one year membership to ClickinMoms to give away so that you can give it a go and perhaps fall in love as well.

Want it?

Of course, you do.

To enter for a chance to win one whole year of membership to ClickinMoms ($50), do any and/or all of the following:

• Leave a comment on this post letting me know what your least favorite day of the week is.
• Leave a comment that mentions Matt Damon.
• Leave a comment with a link to your Flickr, Photobucket, or latest post that contains a picture that you’ve taken.
• Leave a comment with a link to where you’ve Tweeted, Facebooked, Plurked (is plurking still acceptable?) or promoted the giveaway in any way.
• Tell me how pretty I look today. ( Tuesdays suck. What can I say?)

Each action counts as an entry and you can do any and all as often as you like between now and Friday.

Especially the telling me how pretty I look bit.

Seriously.

(ClickinMoms also has monthly plans as well if you’d like to jump in right away- I’m judithshakes- click here to join me.)