Monday confessional

In honor of the fact that today is Monday (and Mondays really are the black sheep of the Day family), I feel the need to share some of the dark thoughts that are lurking in my soul.

The soul that is particularly dark and cranky on this Monday. For several reasons.

First, having just spent a small fortune to have all the trees in my yard pruned and trimmed, plus a dead one removed, it is most disheartening to have a large branch break off during a freak thunderstorm yesterday. Because really? I just love spending money on stuff like dead trees. It's way more fun than on, say, furniture and clothes. Both of which could be purchased for the same price of stupid dead trees.

Second, is it just me or does anyone else find it annoying to log onto reader and see that the Pioneer Woman (though my hero she will always be) has written like four posts by eight a.m.? I swear. I can barely crank out two or three a week. That woman writes like eight posts a day. It's driving me batty. And not because I don't enjoy reading them. But because I feel the need to compete with everyone and every thing around me.

Third, I don't know what it is about the last few months, but I CANNOT. STOP. THE. EATING. It's getting way out of control and I need help. Please. Someone at church grab me by the extra-thick arms next week and tell me you are noticing how chubby I am getting and you wish I would stop. This gravy train has bought a one-way ticket to the next size up, and I am not sure how to stop it.

Fourth, I love the fall, but I really hate raking the leaves. And since we live in Del Boca Vista, every single one of our retired neighbors is out there, morning, noon and night. Raking, trimming, weeding, mulching. And, undoubtedly, pointing at our house and cursing. Not that I blame them - the leaves are piling up. But sheesh. How can one get in all the eating if one is supposed to be outside raking?

And, last, but not least, I am sick of my hair and need a hair suicide hotline that I can call. Remember two years ago what happened when I got sick of it? Please. Someone stop me before I do something drastic, like run into the salon, a Twinkee in each hand, and beg to get the Bruce Jenner.

Yeah. It's that bad.

Happy Effing Monday.

Home sweet home

When I saw this post over at the Nester, I knew I had to have one of my very own.

Only, I didn't want to pay big bucks for something I could create myself.

Because I'm crazy and controlling frugal and independent like that.

And since we've moved more times than most people in our 17 years together, this was the perfect accessory for our home. It took some time finding the old street names, but was a nostalgic walk down memory lane in the process.

Oh, the stories each street could tell you about me.

[Yeah. Me and my wild self. NOT.]

I mixed them all up order-wise and the kids had fun trying to assign each street name to its matching city and state.

I also put a photo of our current home behind the text and reduced the opacity, but it doesn't show up very well in the photos. I had the print mounted on a 3/4" standout with black edging, knowing that I wasn't going to put it in a frame. I wanted to hang the print in the basement, and that is a glass-free zone, so it works well as-is. Plus, I like the simplicity of the print all by itself.

I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

And it seals the deal: We can't ever move again.

There's no room on there for any more street names.

Staging my own intervention

[the shameful evidence of my addiction]

I have always had a hard and fast rule in place for myself:

If I drink 48 ounces of water before noon, I allow myself the treat of a diet coke with my lunch. If I do not get that amount of water in before lunch, I have to drink water with lunch instead. And then I have to drink another 48 ounces of water throughout the rest of the day. (And pee every five minutes until bedtime).

It has worked very well for me, and has been something I've done for years. I feel great, love that I get so much water in, and really enjoy having the treat of a DC with lunch. I seldom have one at any other time during the day, and this has been a great system for me.

Lately, though, I've found myself changing that routine up a bit.

Instead of 48 ounces of water in the morning, I gulp a hurried 20 ounces down after a workout, jump in the shower, and head out to run errands. I might have accidentally, a time or two, purposefully gone out of my way swung by the drive-thru and snagged a diet coke on my way out.

What was accidentally a time or two has now become a full-blown craving, addictive appetite for diet coke. And not just ANY diet coke. McDonald's.

I don't know what it is about their brown, cancer-laden, calorie-free soda, but it is different than everywhere else. It is downright delicious. Even the Husband, who loathes diet coke, admits to the deliciousness that is the Mickey Dees. It is not the same - they do something different to theirs. And judging by the way it affects me, I seriously wonder if they are lacing it with crack cocaine.

Because now? I find that I want it ALL. THE. TIME.

I know I have to get off the juice and cut myself back down to one a day, but, really? I kind of don't care. I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or dance naked anywhere for money. If this is my vice, how bad can it be?

What say you, internet? Are you addicted to anything? Do you share my passion for the brown ambrosia at the golden arches? Should I cut it down to one cup a day? Or should I just go for it and indulge in my delicious addiction?

Discuss.

Inviting you into our bedroom

As I've mentioned countless times before, the Husband's job has [sadly] put him on a first-name basis with the security people at the airport. We get personalized Christmas cards from the hotels he frequents. He's gone. A LOT. And even when he's working at the office in-town, he has very long hours.

Needless to say, his life contains a lot of stress.

Fortunately for me, he unwinds in a very productive manner, which I find I am highly encouraging of.

Internet, meet my new king-sized big girl bed:

Yes, the Husband made that bed. All for me (and I guess for him, too). Let me repeat that: HE MADE THE BED. Made it. Like a mountain man. Or the Amish.

[He does have that secret dream to go off the grid.]

I found a bed that I liked online, showed him the picture, and he drew up plans and worked on it during the weekends.

I could not be more thrilled. We had been sleeping on a ghetto bed since before Chase was born, and it is so nice to finally have a pretty, grown-up bed.

Bedding is the Hanna quilt from Pottery Barn, and is oh, so lovely. Look at that stitching. I just love it:

Pillows are a mash: Some from Target, some sewn together by yours truly with fabric from Joann's:

The Husband has also made me a set of nightstands (which he's not finished staining yet) and he's currently working on a large set of shelves for books/knick knacks that will double as a TV stand.

Here is a picture of the master plan to give you an idea:

[Before]

After:

(Do you like how I put myself in there? Hopefully, I will have two hands, legs, and most of my bottom when I'm sitting on the bed in real life. Though losing the bottom wouldn't exactly break my heart.)

What do you think?

I'm pretty excited about it all.

Thanks, baby. You are the best.

Outsourcing

Ladies, I have accidentally stumbled upon the greatest, most clever plan, (though slightly bordering on evil genius) but sure to change mankind forever more. It happened with very little effort on my part, and just might prove to be the greatest discovery of all time.

You know, right after diet coke, of course.

What is said life-altering discovery, you ask?

This:

McKay has recently shown an interest in experimenting in the kitchen. He has scoured cookbooks for recipes and then begged to be shown how to make them. I've happily let him help and taught him what little all that I know. No one has ever quite looked at me as an expert in anything, and I won't deny the slight boost it has been to the ego. Plus, it's priceless to get some quality time with my biggest boy. He chatters on, I listen and smile, and in the end we have accomplished something more than just dinner.

But he progressed to the point where he really wanted to try some things on his own. With Pizza Hut's phone number on speed dial, I gave him the chance and stepped out of the kitchen. (Plus, it's not like I'd really do better anyway.)

As a result, last week he made three of our seven family dinners, one of which consisted of a roast, potatoes, carrots, and HOMEMADE CRESCENT ROLLS.

ALL. BY. HIMSELF.

(Yes. From scratch. And they were delicious.)

He has quite suddenly become very adept in the kitchen and I have willingly turned that task over to his capable hands (which, by the way, he is very religious about washing, thankyouverymuch).

In fact, early this morning before he headed off to school, he handed me a shopping list of ingredients he'll need to make tonight's dinner.

It's about the most fabulous thing ever.

I've always wanted a live-in chef.

Now which of the other two kids do you think I could turn into my live-in maid?

I am...

I am the kind of mom that says yes to yet another package of silly bands.
But says no when they want to play in the muddy rain puddles.

I am the kind of mom that always says yes when they beg for a treat at the store.
As long as that treat is not the Skittles.

I am the kind of mom that likes to read a story out loud to them.
But seldom finds the time to to do it anymore.

I am the mom who hugs and squeezes their dad in front of them.
Even when they pretend to be thoroughly grossed out.

I am the kind of mom that gets frustrated and cleans their rooms when they're at school.
But I never tell them what I throw out in the process. (And they almost always never miss it anyway).

I am the kind of mom that takes time for my own hobbies, dreams, and needs.
And I think that's extremely good for them.

I am not the mom who sits on the floor and plays legos or does puzzles with them every day.
But I am the mom that sits and listens, then dries their tears with encouragement and support.

I am the mom that has fresh-baked cookies and milk waiting when they come home from school.
I am not the mom who buys the Oreos.

I am the mom who loves these three with a fierce intensity that goes down to my core and sometimes nearly consumes me.

I am their mom.
And they are my heart.