Well, it’s that time of year again. The time when the weather FINALLY drops into the 70′s, and I get to sit in front of the fireplace and eat Chicken Tortilla Soup while I listen to Christmas music.
“It’s the moooooost wonderful tiiiiiiiiiiiiiime…of the yeaaaaaaaaar!”
I have zero patience. I want to go from Labor Day swimming pool closures to ice skating rinks. Except I hate to ice skate. So, scratch that.
I want to go from shopping for bathing suits…never mind.
Basically, I want to curl up on my sofa wearing my leg warmers while I eat a steaming bowl of Chicken Tortilla Soup and talk about my feelings over the faint sounds of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas on constant loop.
I’m basically every man’s worst nightmare.
There are few things that my husband hates more than packing to go on a trip. He is one of those who would willingly take two screaming toddlers to Walmart on Saturday morning to buy feminine products if he knew it would make me smile. But, when it comes to packing his own suitcase, Brian becomes a bit less super-husband and a bit more…screaming toddler.
“I HAAAAAATE this! Will YOU do it for me? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?”
I know this tantrum well since it’s the same one I give him when I’m faced with a pile of dirty dishes. So, Brian has naturally become our resident Dish Fairy. And I’m our resident Packing Fairy.
We’re perfect for each other.
I bet if neurologists did even the most cursory study of my brain functionality—specifically my long- and short-term memory—they would find that I’m only slightly better off than Ozzy Osbourne.
Though, probably for different reasons.
I blame my dad’s genes for my awful memory. But I’m not so sure that Ozzy even remembers who or what he should blame for his.
Sadly, most of my childhood memories are lost to me now. They’re piled behind stupid movie quotes, annoying children’s songs and completely random facts that I never wanted to remember. Like the hierarchy of biological classification: kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Y’all, I didn’t even have to Google that. It pushed it’s way right up to the front of my memory. In that prime real-estate where my grocery list and social security number should be.
Guyyyyyyyys, WHERE have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!
[Huh? Wait a minute…SHE'S the one who didn't post anything for a week! So, why is she looking for us?]
I’m confused. Have you been looking for me?
[Why does she keep having these stupid conversations with herself?]
Have y’all seen my medication lately?
I see it as no coincidence that tornadoes are expected in Kansas around the same time as my parents in the middle of this week. Let the cyclone of gift-giving, hugging, kissing, missed bedtimes, doting, running, playing, splashing, reading, snack times, and squealing commence!
No one does fun like a grandparent. No one.
It’s weird to live in a place where snow just isn’t a big deal. Where we’re from in Georgia, a snow day is almost as thrilling as a Honey Boo Boo sighting.
There’s a very good reason I don’t like to leave the house with my kids. Actually, there are many good reasons I don’t like to leave the house with my kids, but I only want to discuss one of them today.
You know when you watch news coverage of inclement weather–a hurricane, for instance–and there’s always that one, special kind of idiot who decides they will brave the storm? And then the rescue workers have to risk their lives to save this person from their own stupidity? And the person is all, “Wow! Thank you so much for saving my life. I only had 72 hours to evacuate, and I didn’t think it would be THAT bad…even though the educated minds at The Weather Channel predicted 175-mile-an-hour winds with cars and houses flying through the air.”
Yeah, that’s me.