where wildly different is perfectly normal
Back to our regularly scheduled chaos
Back to our regularly scheduled chaos

Back to our regularly scheduled chaos

Let’s begin with an ode to coffee:

Oh, coffee, you life-restoring brew, how did I ever live without you? How did I get through two years of college before submitting to your hot, delicious power? You alone have the ability to pull me from my warm, flannel-sheeted slumber. Even without your partner, Fat-Free Hazelnut Creamer that had to be dropped because of the unpronouncibility of the ingredients, you are still my favorite breakfast food. A single cup of your hot darkness has the power to put a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and make the mornings with wide-awake and active children somewhat tolerable. Oh, tropical brew, I long for warmer days and climes, and you alone have the power to transport me there in February, if only in my mind and dreams. And now, I must refill my cup, for if I slack off, my husband will beat me to it and you will be gone, gone, until the morrow. Or until a desperate swing through the Starbucks drive-thru.

I’m not much for holidays. I don’t know why. Birthday celebrations do the same thing. They all seem to sneak up on me, catch me by surprise, and I end up despising the entire thing. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I thought I was doing so well, planning a gift for Tom (sigh…setting myself up to be a golf widow, planning to get him some inexpensive clubs and a gift certificate to an indoor practice place), when he decided (after I asked him…shouldn’t have asked him) that he wasn’t so sure he wanted to golf. I remembered to snag some cards yesterday at the store, that’s a minor miracle. But…school valentines. Crap. While I have to be there tomorrow afternoon, I’m not planning the Valentine party for A’s Kindergarten class, so I spaced it. Right now I have no Valentines for the 20 other kids, nor is his Valentine mailbox from a cereal box built. We have the cereal box. He may be taking a cereal box with cereal removed, no more. This, of course, means I will be trekking to “large box store that produces guilt” to try and find any Valentines. I’m figuring at this point all that’s left are ones from High School Musical, Bratz, and pinup girls of the 1940s.

It’s snowing. Again. I really feel for folks in upstate New York. I can’t imagine 12 feet of snow and more on the way. I talked to a guy in Buffalo several weeks ago, in between one of our many storms. He said animals were coming out of hibernation and mating, flowers were blooming, they missed their winter. Serves him right {evil laugh}.

Hey mom? Hey mom? HEY MOM? If I get “hey mom”d one more time, I’m going to fake an aneurysm to make it stop.

And now J is upstairs, much too quiet. He’s mid-potty training. Ten bucks says he’s trying to change his own poopy diaper. Oh, please, no poop on the walls, oh please. I already have to scrub the bathroom floor because of, um, poor aim this morning.

Oh, coffee, you charmer, you. You’re calling to me again with dulcet tones. Dark, hot, loving dulcet tones. I will…I will answer your siren call.

Whaddya think?

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