Curse those crafty little elves

I am in so much trouble.

Like serious, intervention-required, may-never-wear-anything-but-a-muu-muu-again trouble.

Look what those damn little elves have created:

No, they have not partnered with the devil that is the girl scout cookies.

THEY HAVE MADE THEIR OWN.

Available ALL. YEAR. LONG in the store.

It's bad enough that I buy them in the spring, hide them from the kids, and eat myself sick on them every year.

But now to have unfettered access to them anytime I want?

It's like selling meth at the corner gas station. Everything you need in one stop!

Don't they realize there are people like me out there, with no self control whatsoever? People on the verge of food suicide at all times of the day and night?

I am so dead.

Just look what happened on the ride home:

I think it's pretty safe to say that the evidence will likely be gone before dinner.

Thanksgiving 2010 (Also known as: Gluttony is Awesome)

Guess what? So it turns out that there is this crazy thing called "The Internet." And on "The Internet" there are these wacky things called "Blogs" where people keep a record of their everyday lives, showcase their family activities, and post for all the world to see on a daily basis.

Did you know that?

Isn't that amazing?

(One would think I'd never heard of it, the way I've been posting around here. Or NOT been posting.)

Well, I am back. I had a most excellent Thanksgiving, and will now proceed to bore you (The Aforementioned Internet) with photos and updates of my goings on. Feel free to click off and hunt for free p@rn unless you are:

a) a relative (and even then I might understand)
b) one of the 16 people featured in the pictures
c) a stalker who can't get enough of me, no matter how boring my posts become

We had quite a crowd here for the holidays, and it made my heart sing with joy. There is nothing more fantastic than sharing the sacred gluttony that is Thanksgiving with people I love. We had two of the Husband's brothers, their families, and the in-laws come to stay (for a total of 16, ranging in age from 64 to 14 months).

There was much eating. A lot of card playing. A couple movie viewings. A little sleeping. And definitely some more eating.

(There was also a computer virus, a flood in the car, and a minor vehicular accident. But who's counting the bad things, anyway?)

The best thing I did all Thanksgiving day (besides eat my weight in coconut cake) was hand my camera off to a brother-in-law. I tend to find myself preoccupied on days like this with the cooking, and do not always remember to do the picture taking. I am so grateful.

What would my crazy stalkers have to look at otherwise?

It was the best weekend, and my house seems far too quiet without all of them here. Anyone ready to come back?

Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.

Thirty-seven

Yesterday, I turned 37.

The Husband was out of town, and, knowing this, we had already planned to celebrate over the weekend. I was fine with it; after all, a birthday past the age of 20 is really just another day. But the children could not stand the thought of an actual birthday day passing without fanfare.

So Mack got up and made me french toast and sausage for my breakfast. Of course, he also remembered as he was plating it up that he needed to be at school early, and did I mind finishing cooking my own sausage when I got home from giving him a ride? And, oh, yeah, we need to leave like RIGHT NOW, MOM!

I didn't mind.

And it was still delicious when I got home 20 minutes later.

Hannah had a special card hidden in her room, something she had worked on for days and days. It was beautifully decorated, thoughtfully worded, and still applicable for next year's birthday, as she thought I was turning 38.

I didn't mind. I loved it anyway.

Chase had one of his specialties all ready to go: the birthday hug. And he proceeded to squeeze my soft, squishy middle no less than 13 times before going out the door, and easily that many times when he got home. Of course, he was hoping to schmooze his way into being able to light the match that lit the candles on my cake.

I didn't mind. I'll take a hug from my big, jointy boy anyway.

The birthday dinner was leftover spaghetti, and the birthday cake was made for me by my lovelies. It was topped with neon green frosting, sprinkles, and only three candles, but it was delicious.

And you know what? I wouldn't trade this birthday party for all the glamorous, grown-up parties in the world. THIS is the meat that life is made of. The crooked cake, cold sausage, and leftovers are what make my life greater than the sum of its parts. These are the things I will remember when their babies are making a birthday party for them. This is the story I will laugh about on the phone with the Husband tonight, when he gingerly asks if I had a good day.

This is the good stuff.

A happy birthday, indeed.

Irony

Hannah came running in, her cheeks flushed and her face set. She sighed, an exasperated release of air coming from her tiny chest.

I waited, stifling a grin.

She sighed again, looked at me and rolled her eyes, just willing me to beg it out of her.

Practiced in the art that is Hannah, again, I waited.

Impatient, she burst out, "Mommmmm! The boys called me a tattle-tale!"

I am not sure which offended her more - the boys' description of her; or me, doubled over with laughter, rolling around on the floor, unable to punish them for their keen ability to hit the nail right on the head.

Trying desperately to turn the glass upside down

I am not a glass half-full kind of girl.

I would like to be, but it is just not in my nature.

For example: A bad haircut can dissolve my seemingly rational self into a puddle of tears that lasts several hours, and continues every morning for oh, say, about six months or so.

Also? I am the person that will always react first, and think later.

I frequently resent the consequences of my own choices.

And I even pout in bad weather and cast blame on the universe for its conspiracy to ruin my life.

(Why, yes, I am a treat to be married to. Thanks for asking.)

In short? I'm a two-year-old temper tantrum in a 36 - almost 37 -year-old body. So naturally, when a minor [albeit highly annoying] medical issue* crops up in my life, I do what every sane, rational, intelligent grown-up would do:

I cry and feel horribly sorry for myself. For weeks at a time.

Turns out? I'm really, really good at that. Might be my best talent even.

Only it doesn't take very long and my kids are affected by it, and in puddles of tears themselves. My husband feels helpless and worried that this beast who has come to visit is his new wife.

And at the end of the day, I still feel angry and sorry for myself with the same problems that I had when I woke up. That isn't exactly the way I want to go through life.

So, I'm doing what most of you probably learned long ago: I'm sucking it up and focusing on the good things in my life. Like the fact that I have this awesome man who loves me (in spite of me) and works very hard to support my ridiculously lavish lifestyle. I have three beautiful, healthy, happy children who just want a mom that doesn't cry all the time. I have a wonderful home with all the comforts anyone could ever ask for (and then some). I have friends who love me and bring me dinner and diet cokes. I have family who call ALL THE TIME to see if I'm okay.

And in spite of the fact that the universe probably still has it in for me weather-wise, I think it's safe to say that I'm doing all right. My life is a good one. And I'm going to be okay.

Just wanted to say it out loud.

[*Yes, I am okay. No, I don't want to talk about it. It's truly not a big deal and I will be fine. Thanks to you sweet internet friends who noticed my absence and checked in on me. You all rock.]

A word of advice (the re-run)

[Originally posted April 3, 2008. And still hugely embarrassing]

Let's just say you are in your mudroom, putting in a new load of laundry. You have just finished working out, and are still wearing your exercise clothes. You notice they would fit nicely in the load you are putting in the washer. You then realize that you have nothing else to put on at the moment, but figure you can make a mad dash upstairs. After all, your daughter is in the basement happily singing along to Disney's latest brainwashing tool High School Musical, and your boys are at school. Plus, you were just about to jump in the shower anyway.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, listen to the voice in your head that tells you this is a good thing to do.

It's not.

For as your jiggly, white, naked body is sprinting up the stairs, the doorbell will ring. And you will notice the goofy smile of the UPS man, peeking through the glass on the side of your front door.

And he has just seen you in all your naked glory.

I mean this advice generally, of course. It's not as though anything like this has ever happened to me in real life.

Definitely not today.

And definitely not, say, about an hour ago.