UnEasy Like Sunday Morning

Good Morning Readers,

I thought I'd take a second while waiting for the plumber (yes, there's delicious poop water in my laundry room again.), to tell you a little story about what happens when one forgets to fill up her gas tank and the inevitable circumstances that generally follow such a rookie mistake.
     I'd like to preface this story by letting you know that the gas gauge in my car is actually broken. It's husband and I's fault for purchasing the vehicle in this condition, but as it was a great deal and shoving two babies unbuckled into the back of a sports car that technically doesn't have a backseat is generally frowned upon anywhere other than the Appalachian mountains, we decided to take it home. We considered the convenience of actually knowing how much fuel we have in our car a minor sacrifice for the the spaciousness we were about to acquire.

Half Birthday Lessons...or The Tale of the Flying Plate

Good Morning Readers,

Another busy few days have gone by, and with those days have come valuable life lessons and significant landmarks….and by that prior statement I mean that our babies are still alive and thriving after six whole months and we’ve now learned about something we’re not allowed to do ever again.

     First of all, I’d like to give myself and the husband another pat on the back to reward our child rearing skills thus far. Six months is a big deal for any parent. It signifies not only a first half-birthday for your little twinkie, but that you’ve shouldered your way through the late nights, constant feedings and oblivious stares, to a little more sleep, less feedings, and infants that laugh when you trip over the dog. In the twin’s case, I’m not only being laughed at, but screamed at as well. My daughter has mastered the art of a Mariah Careyesque high C note, and uses it mercilessly if she happens to be a) left alone, or b) stuck like a tiny beached whale on her back.

These developments are all well and good, but they definitely contributed to an epic parent fail husband and I experienced this past weekend. I’ll set the scene…

Ho Ho Hold On a Minute People

Good Afternoon Readers.

     Let me begin by asking you a question. Do you enjoy eating Halloween candy while listening to Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls, or Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer? Hmm…yes, neither do I.  And as I haven’t really cranked about anything in a bit…or at least I think I haven’t, I’d like to vent to you today about something that bothers me every year….this year being the most annoying thus far. This poop in my popcorn, on so many levels, happens to be America’s obsession (or by closer approximation, manufacturer’s obsessions) with trying to get us poor folk  to celebrate Christmas TWO months before the actual holiday. Grrr. I’ll name a couple reasons just why this is not only ridiculous but stressful…..and we all know that causes breakouts. Let’s begin.

     As I sat in my car the day after Halloween, I flipped through the stations casually looking for something to take the edge off of waiting in traffic. What I got was Silent Night. Huh? I racked my brain trying to figure out whether I’d gunned the Blazer to 88 and accidentally ended up in the future again. No, that wasn’t it. Hadn’t I just dressed my babies in whimsical costuming the night before? Yes. My only thought…“Holy Crap, they’ve done it again this year."

Trick or Treat Part II

Good Evening Readers,

Feelin alright? If you’re like me, you’re full of Halloween candy and completely burnt out from the weekend. Ugh. Not a bad ugh, but an ugh that says “Wow, I stayed out way to late, ate too much junk food, and tried to squeeze two five month year old babies into costumes that they didn’t particularly enjoy.” That type of ugh merits a nap for this writer (highly unlikely), and a story for everyone else, so Here. We. Go.

     Flash back to Friday night. Wait, wait, Friday during the day would be much better as it was nothing short of manic. Reason being, my daughter developed a cold and took it out on me for what must have been eleven hours. Husband had to work that day, so I fielded the baby cuddling, feeding and acting as a human spit up cloth, all by myself. Somehow I made it to the evening, and wearing only pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and leopard print flats, managed to haul both my little dumplings to Grandma’s house for a much needed night off. After getting everyone settled,  my leopard print flats and I booked it back to car post haste so that I could A.) sing Thriller at the top of my lungs, and B.) fly home and get ready.