Spoiler: It's not Maybelline

The Hair

In October (which seems like a lifetime ago) Joe and I were in our garage, getting it all cleaned out for a party.  We heard one snuffling, leaf rustling sound, then another.  We paused in our sweeping to listen a little harder.  The noise was just outside the garage, coming from the back yard.  Like an animal was back there.

I look at Joe in a panic, thinking our dog was loose. "Is Cooper out?"

His eyebrows come together. "No, he's in the house."

Amongst other things, Cooper is our black lab.  He's definitely blog worthy.  He's also a gigantic pain in our respective butts.  Read about it here.

The reason I asked if it was Cooper back there is because he's been known to take luxurious, albeit unauthorized, field trips around the neighborhood, usually in the early morning hours.  Mostly when I have on only a t shirt and bad hair. (I have run braless down my street, throwing baloney and cheese at him to come back. Asshole dog.)

But I digress.  Our dog wasn't out there, but there were two new dogs running around in our back yard; smallish beagles, belonging to the neighbors across the street.  We round them up, slap leashes on their collars, and deliver them back to their owners.

Back at home, in preparation for costumes, we got out the bag o' wigs, one of which Joe slapped on his head and promptly forgot about.  The wig was cut into a bob of longish red hair and looked like something Annabelle might have worn in her movies.

The Wigged One was happily grilling hot dogs for our guests when again the leaf rustling took up but this time, there was only a thin screen door between Cooper and the interlopers and our dog saw them and desperately wanted to play.  Still in the garage, I turned to yell at Joe that the little beagles had once again escaped and were back in our yard, but he was one step ahead of me.

Joe spied the two doggie trespassers and in full red-headed, wigged glory dramatically ran toward them in the back yard, while his hair flowed in the breeze.  It was practically in slow motion.  But his hair.  Oh, my holy goodness.  But it wasn't his hair, as he keeps it to a respectable 1/8" cut year round...it was the hair of this silly wig, which had slipped down and wasn't even on right.

Watching him sprint heroically, grilling tongs waving in the air, to the back to rescue the two beagles, with his hair-not-his-hair flowing in the breeze, I could no longer keep my laughter in and I absolutely lost it.  I dissolved.  My knees went weak.  I could not catch my breath for anything in the world and in fact, couldn't even walk up the back steps into the house because I was laughing so hard at the picture he made in the back yard.  I think I peed my pants a little (who am I kidding, I had to run in and change) and the funniest part of all?

Joe had no idea what I was laughing at because that wig on his head had somehow, in his mind, morphed into just a hat keeping his head warm.  He wasn't even wearing a wig anymore, in his mind, just a toasty head warmer.  He stood there, shaking his wigged head at me, like I was the one who was nuts.

But I knew better.



My handsome Bear, in his "hat", and a sample bite of hot dog in his mouth

 

Black Balloon Publishing. No coincidence.

To town

A few weeks ago, my daughter Annie and I went into Plainfield/Channahon for a visit.  We talked about everything and nothing, and as we drove into Plainfield and saw the “Welcome to Plainfield:  Mike Collins, Mayor” sign.  We joked about how surreal it was to see my dad’s name on the sign.

First to my mother’s house, where we admired her garden and visited with her and dad John and relaxed.  Then it was on to my brother’s new house in Channahon to visit with his kids and fur babies and my sister and her nieces.  It was unrushed.  We don’t often get to have visits like that one so we treasured every second.

Back to mom’s, where we had an amazing dinner of shishkabobs, all while having a watchful eye on the weather because it was going to pour later.

It was still light out when we departed for the 90 minute drive back to Rockford.  We headed back down route 126 heading to 47.

There are no coincidences.

As we’re driving, Annie looks out the window to her right and there is a solitary black helium balloon with a string floating across the field that will eventually cross 126.  If balloons could have intentions, I would say this one was determined to be seen.  As we passed it, we looked at each other, shocked. 

How random, Annie says.  What the eff was that all about?  What kind of sign was that supposed to be? 

Relax, I tell her.  It’s not a sign at all, just a balloon that escaped from someone’s Over the Hill party and happened to be blowing across the field right while we were driving.

But I can’t stop thinking about it on the way home.

Once there, I feed the husband and pet the dog; or was that feed the dog and pet the husband?  Either way, once I open my laptop, that black balloon is at the forefront of my brain and I immediately look up the term on Google.  It tells me there’s a song called Black Balloon, by the Goo Goo dolls. 

No, never heard of that song and I don’t like the Goo Goo dolls.  Next.

If I were dreaming, a black balloon would mean I’m depressed.  That’s not it either.

But then…guess what I came across.

Black Balloon Publishing. I click on it and the first thing I see is their motto:  “We Champion the Weird, the Unwieldy, and the Unclassifiable”.  In other words, stuff that I would write.

I don’t believe in coincidence, but I do believe in jumping to conclusions, and in this situation, I jumped higher than I ever have.

Immediately I “liked” their Facebook page and then went over to Twitter, where I began following them.  Unable to resist telling them how I found them, I sent a message.  What follows is pure magic.

swoon.

And to rachet up the squee factor a little bit more, when you click on the YouTube video they sent me, it’s Mariah Carey’s song “We Belong Together.”

Like I said, there are no such things as coincidences.

Blackhawks and blinders. How much fun can a human possibly have?

A while back, my stepsister Michelle asked my husband and I if we'd like to accompany her and her boyfriend Guy to a Blackhawks game.

Not just any Blackhawks game, though...this one was in a suite.  A penthouse suite.
Yeah, we're that cool.  Well, at least we know someone who's that cool.

We drove in from Rockford to pick both of them up, leaving our car in Willowbrook and proceeding into the big city.

Our first stop was at Frank's.  For those of you who don't know what that is, it's a shrimp house.  While in the car, our hosts decided that one pound of the fried shrimp would be adequate, especially if there would be food in the suite.  Joe and Guy went in while Michelle and I chatted in the car, and soon they were back with an enormous sack each of the biggest, best fried shrimp I have ever eaten in my entire life.

Thanks, you two, for ruining any other fried shrimp for me.  Forever.

After that, Michelle and I were instructed to close our eyes and keep them that way for the duration of the trip.  Why?  To protect us from the trauma that is his driving.  We heard several times on the way to the United Center, "Don't look.  Don't look."  When I dared to look I realized we were driving a six foot wide car down a five foot wide path.  How we managed to avoid knocking off our side mirrors or the side mirrors of other drivers, I'll never know.  Because I wasn't looking.

Once at the United Center, with our too-cool-for-school parking pass, we accepted the free Blackhawks binder given to us via binder night.  We then took the elevator up to the penthouse suites, found ours, and OH MY GOSH.

It was the most amazing thing.  Michelle greeted our host, while we all stared goggle eyed at the scene before us.



We're not in Kansas anymore.  We're much higher than that.

And food?  There was a hot dog station, a nacho station, an Italian beef station, and all the beer you could drink.  Mixed drinks.  And don't even get me started on the dessert cart, but I'll just say this...I had a turtle the size of a hamburger patty.  And it was delicious.
Going to the railing overlooking the rink was a little off putting for me, as I have some weird type of reaction to heights, i.e. I feel as if I'm being pulled off my seat by my crotch for a quick trip off the railing headfirst.  A quick consult with the sister found that she had the same problem.  I'm glad I'm not alone.



I couldn't actually take a picture looking straight down without gagging.  This is as close as you're going to get.

The Blackhawks won, of course. 

actual proof.

The game was amazing.  The company awesome.  The food delish. 


actual hockey players, although from our vantage point, they looked like black ants as opposed to Blackhawks.

The only fly in the ointment was sitting in the parking lot after the game waiting for it to clear, watching a carload of white trash punks pick a fight with someone who was not only probably 20 years older than them, but also an off duty police officer.  Who didn't need duct tape to hold up his car windows like the youngsters.

In this day and age of concealed carry, do you really want to pick a fight with a stranger?  I vote no.  Making it more difficult to watch and understand was that the carload of kids only spoke the language "motherfu*ker" and at one point told the police officer "congratulations on living past your prime."  I was certain there would be a shooting and ducked in anticipation.

That same carload of idiots realized they could get through the parking lot by backing up and driving around instead of cutting in front of the cop.  The only problem with that was that we were in the way.  We once again closed our eyes against the certain impending crash, but it never came...although that car was truly less than a half inch from ours.  If my phone battery hadn't died out I would have gladly recorded it for all of you.

Joe and I had such a great time.  Should we be so lucky to go again, I will:  buy more shrimp, wear blinders, and secure myself to a seat with a bungee cord.   Just in case my crotch should pull me over the side.

What not to say to your wife, a/k/a "The List"

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you'll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He's friendly.  He's handsome.  He's loyal.  He's thoughtful.  He's a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I'm ironing a shirt, he'll find me down in the basement.  "Hi, Iron-y!"  If I'm cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, "Hi, cleany!"  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, "Hey, shoppy!"  Cooking:  "Hey, cooky!"  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren't harmful in any way.  They don't hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my "husband" requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He's really creative like that. 

The birth of "the list" list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, "Hi, porky!"  

No.  I am not kidding.

This isn't me but it sure is cute.

I was eating low carb pork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn't get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who's with me?)   

"The list" was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol' what's his name has learned his lesson.

 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria's Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn't take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, "Hi, smelly!"   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

"LIST." 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 

A new job title for me. Grandmother.

In the early part of August, 2012, I got an interesting phone call while at work.

Daughter:  Mom, if you had to hear some big news, would you want to hear it on the phone or in person?

Me:  (at work, busy, surprised and happy to hear from the child.  Yet somehow I know exactly what it is she’s about to tell me.  I’m cold all over and am able to astrally project to her location and smack her on the back of the head, hard.)

Daughter:  Are you there?

Me:  What.  What.  What is it?  Just tell me.  (Even I can hear the desperation in my voice)

Daughter:  Well, (tears start) I took three pregnancy tests and they all were positive. 

Me:  (I’m unable to speak.  I fumble for my insurance card and touch it several times for comfort.)

Daughter:  Mom??

Me:  I’m here.  And if three tests say you’re pregnant, then you’re pregnant. 

Although I’m still in shock, I make the appropriate it’ll be ok noises through frozen lips and hang up to call the insurance company.  Oh, God.  Although marriage has been talked about, they haven't made it official, and now there will be a baby. 

Babies are a blessing.

The next few months fly by and I see her figure blossom from a lithe, lanky camisole & tight jean-wearing 20 year old to looking like she was shoplifting a big pumpkin. 

Feeling the baby kick was new and magical.  The baby squirmed and pummeled her bladder mercilessly.  Privately, I alternated between crying, being excited, and giving thanks that the baby was healthy. 

It is a girl.

I want to tell my daughter all the things that would change when the baby came.  Number one on the list that will change: 

1)  EVERY SINGLE THING YOU DO, EVERY DAY, ALL DAY LONG, FROM NOW ON, FOREVER. 

As you can see, it's a short list.  As a new mother, running to the store, running anywhere, takes on a whole new dimension.  You can’t just hop in the car and go.  You have to orchestrate it just right, which means to say you leave once the other parent tags in.  You're done sleeping.  You're done thinking of things to do for the weekend because you already know it's going to consist of diapers and formula. 

I also want to tell her that despite the lack of sleep, the endless feedings and diaper changes, the 200 pounds of equipment you need everywhere you go, there are also moments of absolute bliss and they far outweigh the bad stuff.  The sweaty, solid weight of your child against your collarbone.  Their unbelievably good baby smell.  The tiny, trusting hand resting on your chest as you rock.  The first smiles.  The first words.

I try to tell her giving birth is going to hurt but those of us who have given birth know it’s a pain unlike any other and therefore hard to describe.  I also don't want to scare the living daylights out of her.  I needn't worry.  She listens respectfully but tells me that the tattoo she has going down her side from boob to butt was really painful and if she can get through that, she can get through this.

I listen and laugh.  And later, privately, I cry.  She doesn't know.

I’m so glad for her when she comes home after work on her birthday and there’s an engagement ring hanging off the Christmas tree.  They're happy.  That's a wonderful thing.  I help her paint the baby's room, roam through Babies R Us, plan her baby shower, and fall a little more in love with this granddaughter I haven’t met yet with each ultrasound picture I see.

This latest picture looks exactly like my daughter.  Exactly.  Same cheekbones.  Same forehead.  Same nose, lips, chin, and hands.

Her due date comes and goes.  She’s so big that MY back and feet hurt to look at her.

at 2 weeks pregnant.  (Just kidding.  More like 29.)

I have been eating for two her entire pregnancy out of nervousness.  I don't tell her all the bad things that can go wrong.  During pregnancy.  During delivery.   I find myself in tears now and then and pray for an easy pregnancy and safe birth. 

I'm scared in a way I haven't been in a while.

Finally, her doctor has her admitted on a Sunday night to have her cervix dilated.  Twelve hours later, the dreaded pitocin drip is administered.

The word pitocin sends chills up my spine.  It’s not pretty.  I remember doing backbends in labor with the force of a pitocin contraction.

It’s not long before it kicks in, and I hear her low moans start up.  The daddy, me and my other daughter have all been in the hospital with her for almost a whole day.  I'm grimy and tired from spending the night in a chair.  She's in more and more pain and I hunt down the anesthesiologist in the hallway, because he should have been in there half hour ago. 

My daughter's in pain, I tell him.  I watch him like a hawk as he administers the epidural block.  He doesn't want me to watch because he says I could faint.  I tell him I've had two spinals myself but he says it's different when it's your child.  He's right but I watch anyway.  He cautions me that if I faint he's going to administer New York CPR.  I'm not amused.  He says, do you know what that is?  I just kick you til you wake up.  It's not funny but I appreciate the effort.  I only laugh at his feeble joke because she's not in pain anymore.

We're told it could be a few hours now, so my oldest daughter and I run home so I can shower and change clothes.  I take a hurried 2 minute shower and while dressing, I get the phone call that a certain someone is about to meet her grandmother and if I wanted to be there, I'd best get down there quick.  What happened to "it's going to be a few hours now?"

We're there in no time, stopping on the way to quickly buy three stamps and jam three state tax returns into the post office box so they’re not late.  It's tax day.  Way to procrastinate.

They're ushering visitors out of her room and into the hallway once we get there.  She is about to begin pushing and my other daughter and I each are in charge of a leg, as she won't be able to move them very well because of the epidural.  We are given instructions to push her legs backward to help with each contraction.  Dad stands, wisely, at the head of the bed.

Everything happens quickly.  She is told to take a deep breath and hold it and puuuuuuuuuuussssshhhhh!!!!! 

Unfortunately we too hold our breath and push with her.  As embarrassing as it is, I believe I pee a little.  My oldest daughter, holding her breath and the other leg, almost faints. 

I'm amazed at how hard the obstetrician grasps the baby's head and pulls with each contraction but before you know it; the little shoulders are slipping out.  The proud daddy cuts the cord with shaking hands.  I'm a snotty mess.  I have not only just witnessed the unbelievable miracle of birth but also the birth of my first grandchild.

The Alyssa bun, fresh out of the oven.

At 8 pounds 2 ounces of beautiful, little Alyssa Rose makes her way into the world.  I’m amazed at how roughly efficiently the doctor and nurses handle the baby.  They competently towel her little slippery body off, throw drops in her eyes, diaper her tiny butt, weigh her, wrap her in a blanket and give her a hat with a bow before handing her to her tired, happy mama.  I begin to take pictures with my phone and those waiting in the hall see pictures of her on Facebook before the child is even 10 minutes old. 

It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.  My tears are streaming, uncontrolled.  I feel honored that I got to watch the birth.

The new mother tells me later that I kissed her big toe repeatedly during Alyssa's delivery.  She seems to think that is hysterical.  I seem to remember that it was the only safe place to kiss during delivery. I felt I needed to help her relieve her pain in some way and kissing a safe area, i.e. the big toe with the freckle on it, seemed to be the only way I could do it.  It made me feel better, in any case.

Time passes quickly.  The baby is now 6 weeks old.  Each time I see her, I fall a little more in love with her.  It's funny, because I told my husband that after I met him; I was done falling in love and I meant it. 



How could you NOT love this little face?



But you can fall in love again.  I was wrong.  I didn't know how a grandchild could make you feel.  How hard it hits you in the stomach when you lean in close and croon, "How's Grandma's girl?" and you're rewarded with adorable crinkly eyes and a big gummy smile.  Ermehgerd.

Between then and now, I bet I’ve taken 1000 pictures or more.  My friends and family and coworkers can back me up on that.  I say I'm taking them for my family who lives south of Rockford, but it's not true.  I just can't believe how amazing and perfect she is and want everyone to see her.

 



say Cheese!!

I believe she is easily the most beautiful child ever birthed, and although I am certain I am not the first grandmother to think that, I am the only grandmother who's actually right.

The Nose knows

Would you rather: 

a)  Slam your hand repeatedly in a door?

b)  Poke your eye with a sharp stick?

c)  Cover yourself with honey and lay on a fire ant hill or

d)  Take care of your husband/boyfriend when they’re sick.  

e)  a, b, AND c.  Or virtually anything to avoid the petulant, mewling infant masquerading as your husband/boyfriend.

“You have never been this sick.”

Recently, my husband underwent surgery to correct a deviated septum.  For months, he has been unable to breathe at night through his nose, and instead resorts to a cacophony of puh’s and rhythmic, sinus-y, repeated “noooooood” sounds. 

Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.  Guys like this are snatched up like *that.

I invested in earplugs, and have gotten to be somewhat of an earplug expert, as I am able to put them in while still sleeping, when my beloved begins his discordant nightly lullaby.

Thursday, Day One.  Surgery Day.

The surgery went very well, and we were told prior to the surgery that he would have nasal splints.  Yes, splints in his nose.  What we weren’t told is that once we got him home, our house would resemble the inside of a slaughterhouse.  Bloody tissues, bloody washrags, bloody nose, fingers, nasal spray, and face.  Joe’s in a constant haze of Vicodin, saline spray and antibiotics. 

The first night, Thursday night post surgery, went fine.  I was kind.  I was solicitious.  I was loving.  I play an excellent nursemaid to my poor, poor honeybear, for my true love has stitches and giant plastic splints in his poor schnoz.  “Is there anything I can get/do for you” become a mantra.  I fetch, carry, soothe and kiss.  After all, this is why I am off for two days from work; my boo-boo bear has a sore nosey-poo and I’m needed at home to help him!  He doesn’t have much of an appetite, poor dear.  I feel bad going to sleep because I know he’s going to be uncomfortable on his recliner.  I hope he sleeps ok.  ***

here's the Poor Dear.

Friday, Day Two.



Joe did not get much sleep.  I thought that might happen, and gosh, I feel so bad.  I bet he’ll sleep today, take lots of naps.  And since I’m off work, I might get some writing done.  This might be a good thing.  It will be like caring for a newborn; he will sleep, eat, poop.  Sleep, eat, poop.  I prepare a wonderful lunch.  After one bite he pushes it away.  Poor baby.  I guess the Vicodin is making his tummy hurt.  I take the uneaten lunch back in the kitchen and begin a never ending, cycle of providing tissues, squirting him with nasal spray, cleaning out his nostrils with q tips (only gagging once) fetching antibiotics and Vicodin, and taking pictures.  I feel needed.  I don’t get much writing done and resort to playing games on my phone, most of which I can’t finish because he needs one thing or another, but that’s ok.  He sleeps on the recliner again.  I “go” to bed but don’t “stay” in bed, because he urgently needs me for one thing or another and wakes me up approximately 32 times.  I’m tired but I love my pookie pants so I get up mostly to offer him moral support.

Happier times.  In the chair.

Saturday, Day Three.

It comes back to me how exactly a newborn sleeps.  I am crabby from lack of sleep and both pinch myself and swill coffee regularly to stay awake.  It’s not hard because the second I start something (including resting my head on a pillow) Joe’s Superpowers of Interruption kick in.  I have given up trying to write.  I have given up trying to read.  I have given up playing games on my phone, even Ruzzle, which is a two minute game. It is for the best because my eyes are watery and red.  I make a really good dinner which goes uneaten (by Joe, because he has no appetite and by me, because I’m full already—of resentment).  I endure another day of nostril cleaning, Vicodin fetching, and making meals that Joe won’t eat.  I hide in the bathroom with a can of Pringles and a Snickers bar but he finds me.    

…and Saturday Night.

The worst night of all.  Like, nightmare bad.  Due to clotting in the bad nostril, Joe is completely unable to breathe through his nose at all.  I don’t understand why this is a problem and tell him so.  I must have had a tone because he looks wounded.  I don’t even try to go in the bedroom tonight but rather bring a pillow to the couch out in the living room near Sniffle Snifflepants.  He struggles to breath.  I tell him, “breathe through your mouth, honey” except “honey” somehow came out as “stupid.”  I tuck the blankets around him, ensure he’s got tissues/nasal spray/headphones, turn the TV onto Soundscapes and lay down.  I think now he’s going to be able to rest because after all, he’s gotten about one hour of sleep in the past three days.  He lies there for approximately thirty seconds before he throws the covers back, sighing, and tells me, “I’m confused about how I should be breathing.”  I stare at him in utter disbelief and wonder if I should use the pillow from the bedroom to smother him or just use one from the couch.

…and even later Saturday night.

He gives up on the recliner and lays on the sectional at a right angle to me.  No sleep for either of us.  He’s convinced the splints have come out and he will choke on them in his sleep.  He might be right about the choke part but it won’t be the splints doing it.

Sunday morning.

I have given up on all pretense of kindness.  I am surly.  I am unkempt.  “What can I get/do for you” has died a mucous-y bloody death.  I am suffering withdrawal from Facebook, Twitter, Words with Friends, and Ruzzle.  I know now why I stopped after three children; I can’t do anything for more than two minutes without Snuffolupagus racing after me with nasal spray and/or Q tips and I can no longer stand the serene notes of Soundscapes without wanting to weep.  Crankypants is hungry but won’t eat.  Any patience I had is gone.  I make him a sandwich he is not going to eat and it makes me feel better when I poke a hole in it with my finger on my way into the living room with the plate.  He’s a manchild.

Sunday afternoon.

I’m not going to name names but it appears someone has been dicking around with the Q tips without me and has caused a torrential flood of a nosebleed.  I am instructed to call my EMT brother in law and find out what the best way is to stop the nosebleed because even though I have had first aid training and the aforementioned three children and have stopped enough bloody noses to last me the rest of my life, it’s not enough.  I grit my teeth and call and I’m given the magic instructions…pinch bridge of nose, put a small roll of gauze in between frenem and top lip and ice the forehead.   The nosebleed stops but the whining does not. 

Sunday night.

I am a broken woman.  I wish I’d never heard the term “deviated septum.”

Present day.

Pookie Pants Honeybear is now two weeks post-op.  He’s doing great.  He’s slept more in the past three nights than he has in a very long time.  

We both have. 

***most of this is not true.

Christmas wishes. And gift cards.

My husband asked me the other day for a Christmas list.  I hemmed.  I hawed.  I wrote a total of:  two things.  One, a good pair of silver hoops for everyday wear (read:  days when I'm too lazy to look at my earring "shirt" and find something color coordinated) and also a soft, comfy black cardigan.  Oh, I may have mentioned "a ring" too.  In that silly, girly, breathy I-want-sparkly-jewelry sort of way. 

Are there other things I want?  Sure there are.  However, I'm the one who does the most Christmas shopping (I'm a control freak) and when I see something around Christmas time that I want, weeeeeellllll, pretty much I get it. 

Case in point...ordering from Kohl's online today.  Got everything I needed for other people but WHAT'S THAT???  Pajama pants with penguins on them?  Yes, please.  Click!

I'm a procrastinator.  I don't do my Christmas shopping like a lot of people, which is to say that I do it much later.  As of right now, I'm only about 50% done and instead of being out shopping right now...I'm writing.  And thinking seriously about a glass of wine.  But really, my kids are old enough now that they would rather have gift cards.  And how long does it take to go get a gift card?  They don't run out, they're always the right size, and the kids really, truly appreciate them. 

I buy gift cards as opposed to the jeans or shirts I would get them once upon a time that would sit in their closets, tagged, until they were outgrown and given to Amvets, mostly because those ba$tards at Plato's Closet buy everyone else's stained, torn clothing but not my new stuff that has tags on it.  People at Plato's Closet, pay attention.  Stop buying crap from your friends. 

I buy gift cards for the kids because I don't have a personal shopper.  Because I am not very good at picking out things that my children would actually wear.  The only things I'm pretty safe buying for them are camisoles (for the girls, and maybe one for me) and funny t shirts (for the boy, and maybe one for me).  I don't really have any sort of sense of style or color matching ability.  What this means is I wear black pants a LOT.
 
Popular gifts for the youngsters:  McDonalds gift cards.  Victoria's Secret gift cards.  Walmart, or Target, or Plato's Closet gift cards (for those children who like Abercrombie jeans without the Abercrombie price).  Gas station gift cards.  A gift card at virtually any store that would actually prevent me from picking out actual clothes, thinking, "Oh, (fill in name of unfortunate child) would just love this.  It would look so great on them.  So smart.  She/he could even start a fad."*

*Note to my mother:  nothing that you said would start a fad actually STARTED a fad. 

And of course, in their Christmas stockings, it's pretty standard:  candy, scratchoff cards, body wash, a Christmas Pez thingie.  An orange.  A candy cane.  Hope they're not looking at this because then they'd know what's in their stocking.  Again.  For the fifth year in a row.

(Actually, thinking about this, why the orange?  Why, because my mother used to put one in my stocking.  Sometimes we'd poke the candy cane IN THE ORANGE and suck out orange juice.  We were hardcore like that.  I also remember my sister and I getting Leggs.  Remember?  pantyhose in the egg container?  Good times.)

No matter what you gift your children with, or how soon or late you shop, it's a wonderful time of year for sharing with friends and family.  That's my focus.  In the hustle and bustle of baking, shopping, holiday parties, etc, it's really easy to lose sight of that.

And that leads me to remember one more thing that is on my Christmas list, every single year...that my family stay happy and healthy.  It is really the most important thing in the world to me.  Every year I hug my family a little tighter.  And next year, there will be a little granddaughter to celebrate with!  I am literally quivering with joy.

Merry Christmas!

Infinitely Sweet...more pictures to drool over!

What is fall bringing with it this year besides lower temperatures, frost on the pumpkin, and defrosting your car’s windshield in the morning?  As far as Krystine Vermeer of Infinitely Sweet is concerned, it’s “Stripes, Stripes, Stripes.  Chevron is still hanging in there.  Prints in general are pretty hot this season.  Long maxi skirts are here for a while too.  Knitted sweaters, dresses and cardigans are perfect for fall and winter.  They keep us warm and look stylish.  And now, with knits as a trend, there are plenty of knitted items available, in all possible colors, prints, and lengths.”

can you believe the choices?

 I have to photobomb a little bit here; bear with me.  There are so many good pictures I'm having a hard time picking just a few. 



Cool, right?  You never want to leave.



Infinitely Sweet is participating in the Cider and Cinnamon weekend at Edgebrook Shopping Center, Rockford, IL, so you could drop by there and see what I'm talking about.

  

 

decisions, decisions.








One more, if you will bear with me...
    

Bring your jukebox money.  You'll want to spend it on this instead!!!

oh, yes.







Survivor kicks off the new season by voting off...

spoiler alert...(don't read if you don't want to know who was voted off.)

Joe and I have been looking forward to this day for quite some time.

It's the day the 25th season of Survivor starts!!!

We look forward to a lot of other shows, but those are a post for another day, because tonight was all about one show.  Survivor.

We had beer--Michelob Ultra, 95 calories, 2.6 carbs.  We got two pizzas from Papa Murphy's--cowboy pizza, it was delicious, so don't ask about the calories or carbs.  It's the night Survivor starts, dammit.   We did skip the cookies, however.  Only because there aren't any.  We're not saints.

We selected the exact place on the couch we should park ourselves for maximum viewing pleasure...and then of course the dog had to go out, three times.  The pizza was delicious, the beer refreshing, the dog aggravating, the show interesting.

We marveled over how well you get to know the players now as opposed to other seasons, where the players were all nameless rabble until the final 10 or so.  Then you got to know them really well.

Not this season.  We got to see the good, the bad, and the ugly tonight, right off the bat.  I discovered that Jonathan, one of the medical evacuees who was allowed to return, sounds exactly like Alan Alda.  We like the petite brunette with the short hair who is a sex therapist.  We did not like the blond in the yellow bikini (a student, who ran track, and was miss former teen whatsit) or the brunette in the yellow bikini (a know-it-all investment banker, lying that she's an executive assistant.)   They're too giggly and have no idea what this show Survivor is all about...and didn't even recognize Lisa Welchel, who played Blair on Facts of Life. 

They probably weren't even born when that show was on.

Russell, another evacuee bought back, said he refused to take the leadership role, all the while forcing himself down the throat of his fellow campmates as...their leader.

No one else really stuck out, except for Zane, whom I we pretty much hated on sight. 



Jeff, welcome back to our humble living room.  Where you belong.

He was an idiot from the beginning, making alliances within the first 40 seconds with every single girl on the island.  Then making other alliances with other people.  And telling everyone everything.  Every time he got a shot at being on camera alone, he crowed about how he owned the game.  Apparently he's never seen Survivor, because everyone who's ever said he "owned the game" in fact did NOT own the game and were quickly sent home.

Zane was no different.  Bye Bye, Zane! 

Stay tuned for next week, when there will be a different delicious dinner, a new episode of Survivor, perhaps a new and unique place to sit on the couch but most importantly, we'll be one week closer to Halloween! 

And I'll be waiting.  AAAaarrrgghh, Maytee!




Soooooo ready for Halloween.  11 more days til D-Day...Decoration Day.



Time is a fickle thing...

Why is it that time seems to go so fast? 

I find there are just not enough hours in the day to get everything I need to get done...done.

Sometimes when I am planning to sit down and write after work or on the weekend, I notice the bathroom needs to be cleaned.  A co-worker mentions a clothing drive at Hilander.  Our black lab is shedding the equivalent of one dog per day; I see black tufts of it floating into the corner.

While I do like to "keep house", it is not my passion.

Writing is my passion.

Finding quality time to write is hard.  That's what I say.

I believe everyone would agree with me when I also say that if I were to have an entire Sunday alone to write, I wouldn't. 

I'm being honest.

I would clean the bathroom.  Sort the clothes.  Vacuum.  Talk on the phone.

When only an hour or two is left until dinner, and my house is satisfactorily clean, I suddenly find the "zone", where everything I put on paper is golden. 

Time flies during those moments until I realize I can hear everyone's stomach growling, including mine, and off I go to the kitchen to make dinner.

I am upset with myself because I had the entire day to write and I only used a portion of it.  No one really cares if the bathroom goes one more day or if they have to reuse their last bath towel.  It's just my excuse. 

Why is that?  Do other writers do that?  Why am I compelled to, say, clean the microwave when I get a big chunk of time to write?

I tell myself sometimes, I'm brainstorming.  I'm developing my characters.  I'm plotting out the next great American novel.  I'm not, though. 

I am procrastinating.  I'm being lazy. 

I'm afraid.

I'm futzing away my time, only to get aggravated later when I have to rejoin the real world and put the computer away.  I think, bitterly, I never get time to write.

The honest truth is, I have plenty of time to write.  Yes, I work full time.  Yes, I have a family, a house to clean, laundry to do, a husband whose hand I love to hold.

I also have best sellers floating around in my brain.  Great characters that are just clamoring for attention; funny characters jockeying for the same thing.  Plot lines that would delight, amaze, and thrill you.  Amazing screenplays that would have theater lines out the door, should they ever come to light.

Don't I owe it to myself to let that creativity come out? 

It doesn't matter whether or not anyone likes it.  I write for me; I write to please myself.

I do have time to write.  I just need to be disciplined enough to take it.

I need to face my fear of failing.  I also need to face my fear of success.

I think I need to quit standing in my own way.