You know the one that survived the vicious puppy attack of yesterSunday?
I dropped it in a big mug of coffee today.
The End.
Much like Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, I’m staging a Hollow Squirrel Belly Fat Lose-a-lution. Are you, like most of my friends, just shocked that I didn’t go into marketing or advertising? Because I’ve got a million more winners up here in the old think tank.
Last night, I finished up two(!) craft projects that have been littering our dining room table for the past month or so (no, that does not mean I finished my Christmas wreaths/gifts for my uncle and aunt…or as I like to say, I have a head start on their 2010 presents). ahem.
One project I’ll share with you another day.
The other project is a new wreath for our front door — I wanted something bright and spring-y, so I bought some fake (yes. I said it. I even used it.) forsythia, green floral wire and a green wire wreath form. Then I grabbed some of my husband’s big ass wire cutters and went to work chopping and wrapping and fluffing and filling all the while catching up on Top Chef Masters.
I finished the wreath (ok, it’s a tad bushy), but it totally POPS against our front door, and I love it.
I really love that the assortment of craft materials mock me from our dusty dining room table.
What I don’t love? Clamping down on the large wire cutter handles only to get a big roll of belly flab caught between the handles. Hello painful bruise.
There are certain people in my life that I LOVE making laugh: my dad, my husband, and Poodle, just to name a few.
Yes, getting my kids to laugh is fabulous, but it’s also fairly easy.
When I do get a good, solid laugh from one of the other three, it’s so satisfying that I often can remember the time and place said laugh occurred.
I had a nice string going with my husband wherein whenever he couldn’t remember the name of a person (which happens fairly often), I’d respond in a sinister tone with a made-up name. The same made-up name each time.
It began when he couldn’t remember the name of the Penny’s father, “Charles Widmore,” on Lost.
I came up with what I thought was a moneyed name. Who am I kidding — it’s a perfect blend of old money, privileged upbringing and questionable ethics.
And this is where I should tell you what it is…but I can’t type it out exactly as it because I don’t want the murderer with this name to google himself during some traded-for-cigarettes internet time in the prison library and stalk me. Thanks a lot, endell-Way igelow-Bay for being a murderous asshole.
You ruined my perfectly awesome-o made-up name, husband-laughing joke.
A friend gave me a 2-week pass to her gym (subtle, Sandra…thanks). No really, it was sweet of her to share the pilates class love with me.
I’ve gone twice now (in less than a week) — wow! Two times more than I thought I would.
I stepped on the treadmill today. I haven’t been on a treadmill in over 4 years and when did they get all fancy? I actually brought my iPod earbud thingies (not my actual iPod, since I’ve only loaded four songs on it since Christmas), so after a good 20 minutes of not figuring out where to plug the damn things in, the hip young thing next to me finally plugged her own ear plugs in the holey, and I followed suit all “I woulda found it eventually yeah totally.”
So what did I watch? Well, I kind of had to settle on Kell on Earth because I heart reality tv and the episode featured vibrators. Of course, by the time I figured out the sound system, that part was over, so instead I just popped in on the workplace drama, but that’s ok.
I couldn’t do much more channel surfing, because every time I tried to focus on the frigging NASA command center, I lost my balance and gracelessly hopped and skipped back to walking.
I’m going to try for the pilates class on Thursday and hopefully this time I won’t be called out for naughty boys like last week. But overall, the gym is as remembered — my instincts took over and my body guided me to the treadmill next to the girl rather than the man (who would most likely fart and spray sweat on me). It’s still NOT OK to fart at the gym, right? RIGHT?
Men. Seriously. Save it for the car ride home.
Giddiness: When the garbage collection company drops off a large brand spankin’ new recycling can to replace the (stupid) little, topless makeshift craptacular recycling bins of yesterweek…and (insert happy clappy) it is emptied each and every week! Oh! And! Get this!! No more sorting! Weeeee!
Sadness: Realizing you were really effing giddy about the new recycling can.
Happiness: Having a new friend tell you that you look really young for your age.
Sadness: finally figuring out why the computer sometimes goes all whackaupanddown is because your hefty bosom is resting on the keyboard, and (a) you can’t FEEL that your bosom is pressing keys and (b) you’re ON the keyboard because (1a) you’re blind and leaning close to the screen and (1b) you’re gaining weight.
Irrational Desire: I will never wear this, yet I want it.
Sadness: The reason I’ll never wear that awesome necklace is because I’m too lazy to iron a white cotton shirt that it would look so good paired with.
Annoyance: I still find myself singing “ON THE WINGS OF LOOOVVVEEEEE” thanks to the neverending coverage of Jake and The One He Picked from The Bachelor
Naughtiness: I’m hoping you’ve got that stuck in your brain now, too.
To get my husband to change the fricking lightbulbs I’ve been complaining about for the past forever months?
One.
One beautifully sung Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.
I took Paula’s advice and made it my own, suggesting Mr. Squirrel put down the Legos and for the love of Argentina, CHANGE THE LIGHTBULBS.
Maybe it was the $3 Target microphone. Maybe it was the vibrato and sweeping arm gestures.
Maybe he wanted to shut me up.
Yeah, that was probably why, but who cares?! It worked!
Next time you want your husband to finish that project he promised you, give my method a try.
I’m off to compose my next aria to encourage him to finish that damn basement project.
I just chased our recycling bins down the street as the wind and icy patches mocked me and my faux moonboots.
The only other exercise I’m getting these days is breastfeeding. Still.
HELLO Detroit! Sitting here at the Motown International Airport and eating a diarrhea-inducing greasy egg and cheese sandwich, I wonder what my cute little boys back at home are doing.
I know what they’re doing (eating a snack at the playground) because Mr. Squirrel has already sent two emails (with leak-causing cuteness).
Little Nugget stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs, hanging onto the gate, looking for me. Then, when they all went upstairs to get dressed, Nugget dug through the sheets on my side of the bed looking for me.
It’s almost enough that I may about-face and find a flight back home to be with my babies– mama HERE!!!
It doesn’t help my guilt that JoJo has two burn blisters on his fingers from playing with his Cars bedside lamp last night or that he fell out of bed last night.
I couldn’t fall asleep after cuddling with him post-fall, afraid the alarm wouldn’t work, but then I was so mind-numbingly tired that I couldn’t even manage a shower (yes, that’s a warning to you, Poodle). I honestly just brushed my hair after landing here in Detroit.
Somehow despite the funk and greasy mop, I think I look more appropriate than several fellow travelers, such as the emo teen wrapped in a gargantuan Winnie the Pooh blanket. Really.
Oh yes, and right before boarding this morning, I got my period. And my new purse doesn’t have a cache of underwear liners (can’t do the p word) or tampons. Those newsstands sell tampons, thankfully – two stiff cardboard tubes for $2, and it’s always fun to have to dig through the rack for the ones marked with big SUPER SIZED ones. The young male cashier couldn’t meet my eyes, but that could be because I asked him if he’d personally recommend the product. Guess not.
Off to stink up the Twin Cities… Bon voyage!
A few minutes after diapering Baby Nugget yesterday, I found him wet-bottomed. Had he sat in spilled water? Did the diaper leak? Well, yes it had, because that’s what happens when you put on the diaper inside-out.
How is it that I haven’t been invited to a surprise party in oh let’s see… I cannot even remember if I ever have (note to party planner if I have: your party was not memorable)… and yet I have been invited to TWO surprise parties for next Saturday. Two. On the same day.
Also. Is it ironic or just moronic that I’ve been spending lots of time generating and organizing donations for someone in need in our community then ran dangerously close to having a negative balance in our bank account?! And by dangerously close I mean, ok fine, we were in the negatory zone. WHICH also means: hi. no more contests here at hollowsquirrel because the postage and envelope costs, not to mention my awesome prizes (yes, I realize they suck). Anyway, I’m puttting the smackdown on all frivolous spending, so no more spontaneous trips to the Gap Outlet, Dunkin Donuts or (gasp) Target.
I had to test myself today by ONLY buying diapers at Target today. I did it (and let me tell you: those magazines just SCREAM TO ME “BUY ME BUY ME YOU MUST FIND OUT IF JON IS REALLY CHEATING ON KATE” and you know what? They never tell us. It’s enough to drive me mad. Even though it’s not my business.*).
We’re not eating trapped chipmunks yet…we’re fine…we just stumbled into some Bad Timing and Unplanned Purchases and Oops I’m a Fucking Moron. And a $35 fee for being $10 in the hole, Bank of America…nice. Do you kiss your mom with those fees?
*But the “See Jon Cheating on Kate with this 23 Year Old” stories are much less offensive than the “Kate is an Atrocious Mommy” stories. Do you just want to burn down the magazine stands like I do? If I had eight kids, with six all one age, I can tell you, I wouldn’t be alive or at least in public life (i.e. mental institution) for people to judge. I do not have the mental fortitude to handle more than my own children, and on some days, I don’t think I’ll make it to the end of the day without going batshit crazy. Sure, Kate says things to her kids that aren’t fucking Barney perfect SOMETIMES, and I don’t know her, but I can guarantee at the end of her day, she regrets saying them…but more often than not, it’s more than apparent that she adores her children and tries her hardest to be patient and kind although I don’t know how she does it with all the NOISE and TALKING and OH MY GOD you should have seen my ears bleeding tonight at dinner with just my TWO kids. I’m getting all defensive of Kate, and I really think all moms should tell the haters to suck it. Leave her alone…especially people without kids– you can seriously just shut your judgehole.
Seriously. When did I get so bitter?
