Something Wicked This Way Comes…

While getting ready for Halloween festivities, I looked over at my super-cute daughter, 3,  prancing about in the hastily purchased drugstore sorceress costume and said, “Oh, honey, you look pretty!”

To which she responded, “Yep, mama. I look GOOD.”

Are You Questioning My Badassness?

That Middle One, 5, came home from school last week a little upset because a little girl didn’t pick him for some random classroom thing that day. I asked him what happened… He explained that “Leena” was supposed to pick someone for “something” and that if you wanted to do it, you were supposed to raise your hand. “I raised my hand, mama, but she didn’t pick me because she doesn’t like me.”

“Really, honey? Why do you think she doesn’t like you?”

“She said that she doesn’t like me because I make green checks all of the time…”

(Green checks are given daily for good behavior, yellow for the questionable, and blue for the times when a child makes the kindergartner teacher cry.)

“I told her that I made a yellow check on the first calendar…

And that I made a yellow check on the second calendar…

And that I was  probably going to make a yellow check on this calendar too.”

My Sincerest Apologies, Mother

[This spot reserved for something that my oldest, 10, may eventually say that isn't snotty nor frighteningly reminiscent of a ten-year-old me.]

I was terribly grumpy today.

Not that I’m usually a big ball of sunshine and ooohlookatthatprettykittyridingtheunicornonthatbigrainbow type of person or anything, but today’s lack of joy was a *tad* more noticeable to all.  Including that old lady in traffic that I flipped the bird to… totally on accident, of course.

At first, I chalked up said grumpiness to the odd case of plague running about Shakepeare-ville that turns normally lovely little children into bonafide zombie spawn of Satan (more on that tomorrow)…

But then I realized that it probably was actually due to the fact that that stupid Confessions song has been stuck in my head non-stop since the Glee kids did the mash-up competition a few weeks ago (If you have no idea what I’m talking about here, get thee to a Hulu or  a Fancast or wherever it is that you snake free t.v. from posthaste.)…

And, last night, it was the LOUDEST tune from the one song soundtrack that played continuously throughout my otherwise lovely dream about…

well…

let’s just say that Chuck Bass (please see the if you have no idea what I’m talking about disclaimer from paragraph four) paused at a very inopportune moment to tell me to, “stop singing that rubbish and pay attention here.”

Seriously, folks, the phrase “chick on the side” has passed through my lips so many times at this point that I’ve picked up my car keys on more than one occasion to drive her to the clinic my damned self.

I need help.

So much so that I’m about two seconds away from pulling out the Rent soundtrack.

And then it’s all just downhill and dead unicorns from there.

[This is the part of the post where someone who didn't love you would include an audio player that automatically started playing through a looped playlist consisting of Confessions [Part Whatever.. who the hell names their songs in parts... smells like douchebaggery if you ask me] and La Vie Boheme… You may thank me in a comment below. ]

Last night, my toddler hugged my leg.

He quickly jumped back with a screech.

Mama, he looked at me with confusion on his face, you’ve got SPIKES growing out of your legs!

I told him that it was how I defended myself against alien invaders.

He nodded his head in apparent agreement and even a little awe.

If only all men were so easily impressed, eh?

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.

Since I will soon be opening up a special design shop inside JudithShakes Designs geared towards photographers, I thought that I’d give you a little taste of what I’ll be offering by giving you guys  my new “Little Snowflakes” Greeting Card Templates for Photoshop (CS2+).

This template pack has 4 different 5.25in x 7.25in holiday .psd designs that use clipping masks (if you don’t know how to use clipping masks (and, dude, they’re awesome, you should totally learn how to use clipping masks) there are a couple of really great tutorials here, here, and here (video, woo hoo!)).

They’re absolutely free, and you can use them in both your personal and professional projects as needed. I just ask that you give me a little feedback to let me know how they worked for you and whether or not you’d like me to keep posting things of this nature here on my personal blog (or if you’d prefer that I stick to sarcasm and senseless anecdotes).

Fonts are not included but can be downloaded here and here.

To download, click on the “Add to Cart” button below!

Oatmeal Cranberry Walnut Cookies

Please stop licking your computer screen. I’m fairly certain it tastes like ass. And it can’t be at all sanitary…

But if it makes you feel better, the very quick and super easy three step recipe for those nomilicious cookies pictured above can be found at the bottom of this post once you’re done reading all of my fascinating and thought-provoking personal dialogue.

Unless, of course, you skip the rest of this post.

Which is totally cheating.

And nobody likes a cheater.

Not even Baby Jesus.

Just sayin’.

Now where were we…?

Ah, yes, I know… thought-provoking dialogue. Got it.

When I was kid, I was neighbors and friends with the daughter of our high school’s home economics teacher. Home economics not being my thing, I, of course, completely missed out on learning how to properly sew (something that I now regret) and all of the benefits of using a crying, pooping, needs-to-be-held robot baby as a sex education tool (something that I now regret even more). But I had a friend whose mom was the home ec teacher. Bygones.

One evening, while having dinner at said friend’s house, I sat in silent amazement at the beautiful weekday meal that her mom had made. I just couldn’t imagine how much this woman had her shit together in order to work all day, cater to the whims of two children, run about to and fro and do all of those other necessary things that mothers do, and still have time to come home and put together a homemade lasagna, a vegetable side with a fancy name, fresh bread and salad, iced teas in pretty glasses, and a cake to boot.

My mom was making macaroni and cheese.

And no cake.

Unless Little Debbie’s count.

(And, dude, they sooo do.)

After dinner, when I was helping my friend with the dishes (because, in my book of newfound appreciation for both Donna Reid and Clare Huxtable, her mom needed a moment to put up her feet and relax), I began waxing poetic on how awesome the meal was and how I just didn’t know how her mom had the time and perhaps I should take home ec to learn the trade… yada, yada, yada.  I think I was probably going into the tenth solid minute of discussing, most inappropriately for a teenager that had much better things to occupy her mind (read: boys), how time consuming  making a homemade lasagna must be, when she held up her hand and said in a most exasperated voice,

“Judith, it’s just Stoffer’s.”

I’ve lost my microwave.

How does one lose a microwave, you ask?

Frankly, my dears, I have absolutely no clue.

All I know is that I had a microwave and now I do not.

I had a microwave in Louisiana (the first tour). I happily nuked stuff in the Egypt that was McCrory, Arkansas.  I re-heated many a leftover slice of pizza in that aptly named town of Bald Knob, and Alabama dished out the bags of microwavable popcorn as only a pretty little box of cancer-causing waves of radiation can…

And, yet, here I find myself sitting   in our new house [insert huge sigh of relief],quietly tucked  away in a private little road smack dab in the middle of suburbia, tearfully reflecting on the big gaping hole in my heart (and countertop) that was once consoled and temporarily filled by the sweet smell of quickly heated baked goods and other various fattening things that taste like heaven once made gooey and nearly unrecognizable by the tiny waves of happy heat that could only come from the devil because they are just that awesome and obviously evil.

(Oh sweet saucer of microwaved Hershey’s sauce over ice cream/fudge/dinner, you complete me.)

I’ve lost my microwave.

And it totally sucks in a cold and unforgiving way.

And, combined with the fact that there is no dishwasher in my new (old) house, it may just cause me to lose my mind.

As soon as I unpack it, that is.

On the other hand…

My three-year-old  just told the noisy kids next door to “be quiet, dudes”.

So I take it back.

All is right with the world.

And the stove gets hot, right?

Thursday

Hours to New Orleans from Huntsville  via minivan equipped with 3 screaming children: 7

Friday

Hours necessary for errant husband to convince me to move back to Louisiana despite my SIGNIFICANT (Look! ALL CAPS for EMPHASIS) misgivings: 5

Saturday

Hours to Hunstville from New Orleans via minivan with no screaming children: 6

Sunday

Hours to reassure me that this was a good idea: 24

Monday

Hours to rent truck, pack shit, load it all up: 9

Hours spent convincing me that this was still a good idea: 24

Hours from Huntsville to Lake Charles, Louisiana via slow-ass moving truck: 10.5

Hours slept: 0

Tuesday

Hours spent reflecting on what exactly went wrong in your life in order to end up living with your mother-in-law after all: [censored]

Wednesday

We’re heading back to New Orleans tonight to pick up the Spawn of Shakespeare from my mother’s house. I am tired. I am grouchy. My face has broken out from the stress, and I’ve yet to surface from this cloud of complete disbelief and chaos.

I am in desperate need of a good book, a hot bath, and a significantly large dose of liquid demerol.

I am also in desperate need of a good long look at my life…

This spur of the moment shit is for the birds.

Perhaps it’s time to become boring.

I once gave one of my favorite pair of sunglasses to one of my favorite rockstars.

He wore them on stage for all of three bars and then dropped them promptly to the floor.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It’s midnight here in Deliverance. I’m leaving at four to make my way down to New Orleans- me, three Spawn of Shakespeare, and my new GPS Gertrude (RIP Betty). I’ve pin-marked all of the Starbucks on the way and have loaded my iPod with all of the best traveling songs…

All the makings of a great roadtrip.

If I could get to sleep, that is.

P.S. My cell number is on my Facebook, feel free to call and revel in my “must talk in order to not fall asleep” conversation. We’ll talk about rockstars and cherry chapstick and the price of tea in China.

Or monkeys.

Whatever.