I am Old. Turns Out, So is My Husband

New Year's Eve is rapidly approaching.  This is a holiday that totally stressed me out in the past.  The hoards of people "out" having a great time have always made me feel pressured to be out having FUN!  My dear friend, Karen, and I created a super-duper White Trash Bash party in 2003 to satisfy the need for FUN! and also our need for dress-up.  It worked.  Until I went and had babies, she moved to Arizona (she's back now) and this year, Karen and her hubby are off being a couple without kids and skiing.

This leaves us plan-less.  I really have no desire to dress up (I love my pajama pants), go out, spend a ton of dolla' that I could use for a million other things, leave my kiddies and be out with crazies.  That was how the whole White Trash Bash got started in the first place.  Chris kept asking me, "What do you want to do for New Year's?"  My response was to avoid eye contact and mutter an "I'm not sure. . ." and walk away.

Chris asked again yesterday, "Have you given any thought to New Year's Eve?"

My response was the norm--"uh. . . no. . ."

Chris responding, "Honestly, I would be perfectly home with us just staying home and hanging out."

For the first time in this discussion, I responded with gusto.  "Really?! I thought you wanted to go out."

I submit this as irrefutable proof that we are, indeed, old.  Old and boring.  Anyone want to join us on our home-drinking, movie-watching, fun-filled, FREE evening?

Really? (When things go awry)

Really, Burger King?

A sign in front of a Burger King near our home reads,

"We are open on Christmas!  All day--7-12.

Assistant Manager Needed."   

Certainly those things aren't related.



Really, Target?

I feel certain that the buyer on this particular flesh-colored mushroom wine stopper had quite a laugh when the store went for the product.  And yes, I took this with my phone--I couldn't pass up the opportunity.  

Let's Get Real

I'm all for being honest.  Most of the working moms I know talk about how much of a disaster zone their home is--to the point where we won't see each other in our respective homes because of the mess.  I told two of my friends today that if I'm waiting for my house to be perfect, I may never see them again.  I need to get over my mom's voice in my head that a mess makes it unacceptable to have anyone enter my door.  So here's my attempt at transparency.  It's okay.  You can judge.  And let it be known that my house looks this way and I still choose to do things like write a blog post, take a nap (if it's the weekend) and create a huge mess of popcorn and chocolate for little Christmas goodies.  Smart?  Likely no.  I'm just surviving--knowing there are things more important than folding laundry when I get a scant 2 hours per day with my kiddos during the work week and that by the time they are in bed, I am toast.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not one of those perfect moms.  I know I'm not the only one.  I'm definitely not like a co-worker of mine who told me, quite seriously, that she doesn't check her email or have a Facebook account because those things would have her waste time.  So if you're all for wasting time on the interwebs while unfolded laundry takes over your house, CHEERS!  Now be brave and post about your own unfinished chores.  Let's live a little and show that a little mess doesn't matter in the scheme of things.  

And some baby cuteness.  Actually, I can't decide if I like this squenched up face she is making, but the picture makes me smile, so I'll include it.  

And finally, if you were wondering how Chris and I look gussied up, here's a pic from my company Holiday Party that happened to be on my birthday Birthday Bash!

Twinkles in the Death Spiral (or Controlling the Holidays)

The most amazing blog ever, Rants from Mommyland, calls the holidays the Halloween to Christmas Death Spiral.  I have aspirations of over-controlling the holiday to prevent the death spiral. This approach always seems to backfire, but being the determined soul I am, I continue to persevere with the same approach.    I am skidding sideways into the holidays, holding on tight to the sled with my eyes squeezed tight.

Remember the stellar parenting that made up our tree-buying experience?  If not, check it out here.  Well, despite the poor planning in the purchasing (like that alliteration?), our tree is up and is even decorated.  I know, right?  On top of that, I even managed to snap some of those sparkly light pics of the tree while putting off answering the oft=repeated, "What doing, Mommy?" in a quiet moment of serenity (I can pretend, right?).  Fun special-effecty pictures.  Oh, and I finally managed to rearrange our living room.  I'll have to post pics of that after I find a special effect that clears out the piles of folded laundry and various small toys.

Collection

I'm not a collector.  Unless you count a collector of clutter.

My husband and his family are collectors.

When we started dating and were getting first gifts for each other, my dear husband kept asking what I collect. I stared at him in puzzlement.  I told him I only had one accidental collection, and that was crosses to hang on the wall.  People just started buying them for me, hence accidental collection.

I was wrong. When I was a child, my mom made sure that we had a dated Christmas ornament for each year.  It's really the only thing I've ever collected with diligence my whole life.  Other collections end up forgotten as I have moved on to the next interest.  I have every ornament in the Frosty Friends series since 1980.  Yep.  That's a freakishly long time.  Last night, Monkey was finally old enough to really investigate.

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I don't see myself starting any new collections, but each year I'm thankful that I bullied convinced my mom to and them over to me when I got my first Christmas tree.  

I'm THAT Mom

I'm that mom.  I gave my baby juice in a bottle today.  Yep.  Totally true.  I need that girl to poop.  I need it so much that I'm that trashy mom.  The juice isn't even diluted, peeps.

Christmas Nostalgia

Sunday we went to get our Christmas tree.  Being the fab parents we are, we set out on our mad dash mission in between lunch and naptime.  It's all about timing, don't ya' know.  Half-way to our destination, I realized just how awesome we are--it's raining and we had no stroller, no baby carrier, no umbrella, and no tie down for a tree.  Turn around and go home?  Hell no.  That's for  parents with more spare time weenies.  We carried on like the determined people we are.  Our tree-picking took place in the form of a drive-by through the lot and then me sacrificing Chris to the elements to actually get and pay for the tree.  I'm nice like that.  Try not to be amazed.  Then we crept home with our soggy tree because the lot attendant warned that our precious tree was going to slide off the top of the car.  (It didn't, in case you were wondering.)

This experience of parent-fails family togetherness harkened me back to my childhood.  My family loaded into the cab of my dad's Silverado pick-up truck.  Yep.  That's the model that would burst into flames if in an accident at just the right place. 

This looks pretty much just like my dad's truck minus the bubbly do-it-yourself window tinting, funky smell and random shop rag for snotty noses under the front seat.  Can you imagine four people in the cab of this truck?  What?  Seat belts?  Nope, we didn't use those in the 80s.  You know what we did use? Flocked trees.  Mmmhmm.  Amazingness. This is what our tree doesn't look like this year, but did in my childhood.  

My childhood tree also included rad bubble lights.  Drats that they are fire hazards, because the special effects were mesmerizing.

I guess I'm now realizing all things I loved about my childhood Christmases may have been life-endangering. I'm guess that judging by Sunday, our children will have the same recollection of their childhoods.    

Stoopid Desperation.

Remember when I told you about the coolest friend in the history of ever and how lucky I am to have her?  Yep.  This one.  Sometimes it feels like the proverbial gods are conspiring against us seeing each other--various trips, my job, sickness of the kiddies, sickness of the kiddies and sickness in the kiddies have derailed our plans of late.  When this happens, we get desperate.  Desperate to see each other.  This leads to foolish decisions.

What kind of foolish decisions could two moms in their mid-thirties make?  A night of drunkenness? Nope.  Driving recklessly? No.  Spending ridiculous amounts of money on shopping sprees? Guess again.

Our foolishness was based in the decision that we thought it would be great to put 5 kids under the age of 6 together for some fun.  One of my favorite authors in the history of ever, Laurie Notaro, once told a tale in which she awoke with the word "stoopid" written on her forehead.  To my memory, the word stoopid is reserved for acts beyond mere stupidity.

Our kids had fun.  We got to talk, in between wails of frustration and repeated asking for "Aunt Steph, come to my woom," and we had delish order-in Asian food.  We even got a couple of passably cute snapshots in between head bumps, cheek pinches,  tantrums and squeals of laughter.


Abby loves to mommy the baby.

 Addison is finally convinced Brook-brook isn't a babydoll.  She even likes her a little. . .as long as Mommy isn't holding her.

The boys finally have something in common--a love for "Cars."

Sometimes STOOPID is totally.worth.it.