Gettin' my Sh*t Together

So this post is completely off topic. . .

I've been in a bit of a slump lately and haven't felt "inspired" to write much.  I go through this periodically, and I joke (though I certainly understand that mental issues in real life are no laughing matter) that I am bipolar.  I'm either completely unmotivated and exhausted, or . . .

I'm gettin' my craft on!

Pinterest is my crack, I swear.  I posted once before about Pinterest Peer Pressure.  I browse through image after image as my heart rate increases and the little hamster in my brain races faster and faster.  I begin a checklist of all the supplies I need in order to provide my family with inviting outdoor spaces, sparkling surfaces that have been cleaned with organic, home-made detergents, and intellectually stimulating crafts that would make Mary Poppins feel inferior.  I need glue!  And lemons!  And wooden crates that I can fashion into furniture!  And spray paint!  And fingernail polish!  And a poster of Rob Pattinson!

It makes me anxious.  Once I get a project in my mind, I will drop everything else (including parenting) in order to get 'er done.

Par exemple - I love a good calendar.  I am a planner by nature, so I totally dig getting my pens out and planning the next month's activities.  This is generally a good thing since I am, as you know, the CEO of the BoyMommy Family.  I make sure everyone gets where they're goin' and that they are on time, at the correct location, and wearing the right color jersey.  I have two months at a time on dry erase calendars in the kitchen where each family member's activities are tracked via color coding.  Daddy is purple, Mommy is red, Large is green, Medium is blue, and Small is orange.  This way, everyone can see what we've got going on.

I also use iCal on the computer and my phone so that I can track everything with the same color codes. My phone is convenient when I'm standing at the doctor's office while my three offspring argue over I-was-a-good-boy stickers and chase each other around the waiting room as if they were unsupervised zoo animals because I always carry my phone with me.

I still like to see it all laid out on a paper calendar though.  I had a perfectly good day runner.  Nothing wrong with it.  BUT, it still didn't feel right.  I scoured Pinterest for hours looking for the perfect Mommy calendar/agenda.  I even polled my girlfriends to find out how they handle their families' activities.  Finally I decided that I'd need to make my own day runner because nothing else was going to satisfy me.

And then it started . . . the patterns, and paper, and stickers, and markers.  Makes my heart go aflutter just thinking about it.  So here she is.  Yes, I know I could EASILY have purchased a day runner.  The first step is admitting I have a problem.

Front cover - made the monogram using an iPhone app called 3initials,
then emailed it to myself and printed it out.
I also have my monogram as my screen saver on my phone because . . .
well, have you MET me?

The binder is 6x8 so I can fit it in my gargantuan purse.  
I printed the monthly calendar on 8.5x11 paper
and added a tab (the red thingy)
so that I can open it and see the entire month.

Naturally I decorated each monthly tab.

Right behind the tab is the monthly calendar, 

and then the weekly calendars for that particular month.

Both the weekly & monthly calendar spreads
are color coded by family member.
I can put notes or reminders on the right side of each date.

I have a nifty little pocket folder thingy so that I always have the appropriate colored pen.
Whew.  I'd hate to get caught without the correct pen!

It's important to keep a running tab . . . 

Birthdays are on the monthly calendar and
are indicated by little blue star.

Please keep your you-have-too-much-free-time comments to yourself.  It's not free time; it's time I'm using unwisely.  There's a difference.  Clearly I make bad decisions and I have a problem, BUT if you want to know where I'll be next Tuesday at 9 a.m., I can tell you!

I Set the Elf on Fire.

I set the elf on fire.

It was an accident, I swear.

I’m sure, by now, you’re aware that there are OVERACHIEVING moms, some of my girlfriends included, who keep making the rest of us look bad by posing their elves in clever positions to the delight of their young offspring.  I’m not that mom.  I am the mom who jolts awake after being in bed for an hour because I realize f*ck, I forgot to move that damn elf.

Neeny has been with us for several years and he is THE most effective bad behavior deterrent in the history of bad behavior.  He magically appears when we return from our Thanksgiving travels and he doesn’t leave until he returns to the North Pole with Santa on Christmas Eve.  Last year, when the boys’ behavior was bordering on Naughty, Neeny didn’t return one morning, but he left a note that explained that he had returned to Santa and had reported on their Naughtiness . . . and perhaps Santa would give them another chance if their attitudes improved and they listened to their mama.

Can you picture me doing my best Dr. Doofenshmirtz laugh and wringing my hands like an evil cartoon villain?

Sunday night, I actually remembered to move Neeny.  I put him in the playroom inside a lamp, figuring he’d be safe since we rarely use the light in that room.

Lo and behold, Medium decided he wanted to use his easel so I turned the light on for him, forgetting that Neeny was sitting directly ON the lightbulb.  I walked in about an hour later to turn off the lamp after Medium had cleaned up, and I smelled something odd.  Sniff, sniff.  Hmmmm.  Sniff, sniff.  It smells almost like plastic burning. 

Insert audible gasp here.

I rushed over to the lamp to grab Neeny without anyone under 10 seeing me do it, but he was fused TO the hot lightbulb.

I turned off the light and peeled him off the bulb, but alas, he had a giant, charred, steaming black hole where his little plastic tummy should have been.  I almost burned a hole all the way through his felt, cotton-stuffed body.  I blew on him like I was trying to cool down microwaved mac and cheese.  Once he stopped steaming, I threw him behind a picture frame and prayed the boys wouldn’t notice he was missing.

Hubby arrived home from work and I announced that I had to go to Target.  “Neeny caught on fire.  Explain later,” I called as I headed out the door.  No worries, I thought.  I’ll buy a replacement at Target, put him in the same spot and the boys will be none the wiser.

Target was sold out.  

Not time to panic yet, but I will admit that my armpits were feeling a little persweaty, I could feel my face getting red, and I lost all ability to take a deep breath.  I asked the salesperson if there were any more in stock “in the back.”  You know, the magic “in the back” where they store all the hot items so they can feel like heroes of The Right Stuff proportions when they burst through the swinging doors with whatever product you can’t live without?  No luck. 

I knew I had seen them in other stores, but I needed one, like, yesterday.  I sent out a mass email to all the moms in my neighborhood via Google groups.  I headed to another store to look, and when I asked the sales representative if they sold the Elf on the Shelf, he answered me with a confused look as if I had just asked him if I could borrow a kidney, and said, and I quote, “a wha?”

Has this guy been living under a rock?  Does he not have his own Pinterest account?  Is his self-esteem not reliant on his creativity and his ability to Edward-Scissorhands several craft projects at once?  

The next store was the same story as I encountered a young sales associate who obviously has not been inducted into the secret sorority whose mascot is a creepy plastic doll dressed in non-flame-retardant clothing.

At this point I had visions of myself in my basement at 2 in the morning, sewing a tiny little coat for Neeny so that I could hide his GIANT GAPING HOLE.  At the 4^th store I started to panic as I mentally documented how my colossal failure as a parent was going to scar my children for life, robbing them of their innocence, their belief in magic, their faith in humanity, and essentially ruin their very childhood. 

And then it happened.  A mommy in my ‘hood emailed that the elf freaked her kids out and that I could have theirs, for free, and that it was sitting on their front step just waiting for a new home.  I double-checked that it was the older, skinnier, scarier elf and not the newer, chubbier, more cherubic-looking elf, which simply would not do. 

The BoyMommy family is again in ownership of an Elf on the Shelf.  Apparently he got his hair did last time he went to the North Pole as he now has reddish hair.  You know what he does NOT have?  That charcoal smell.

The Official 2012 BoyMommy Toy Guide

It’s that time of year . . . the time when annoying commercial ditties get stuck in your head and replay themselves in a loop until you want to shoot yourself in the eye with a Nerf gun just so you can fortheloveo'pete make it stop. 

No?  Just me?

I have decided that I was destined to be a Boy Mommy.  I get Diabetes just thinking about the saccharin-sweet Tinkerbell/Barbie genre of cinema.  I’d sit through 10 Monster Jams before I’d watch a My Little Pony dvd.  The colors alone . . . the purples and pinks and fuchsias . . . it’s like the animator  vomited a bag of Skittles.

Not that there’s anything wrong with girls and all things girly.  It’s just that I was clearly not cut out for the job of being a mommy to girls. 

That being said, I made a list of 10 annoying toys that I will NOT be purchasing, AND they’re gender neutral so they are equally offensive to both boy mommies and girl mommies!  (I’m all-inclusive here at the BoyMommy blog site.)

In no particular order:

1.  An antique doll

When Hubby and I were dating, my mother would make him sleep on the couch in the living room when he visited for the weekend.  Apparently she thought I was as pure as the driven snow. . .  Aaaaanyhoo, she’d be dusting in the living room later and be confused because her antique doll, which was perched on top of a book case, was always facing the wall.  Turns out Hubby was a little freaked out by the thought of glass eyes peering through his soul while he slept, so he’d face her the other way when he visited. 

I mean, she's holding her hand under his
nether-regions in order to CATCH the poop . . . 

2.  Doggie Doo

Germans love David Hasslehoff.  Apparently they also love picking up dog feces.  This is the notion perpetuated by the Doggie Doo commercial, which portrays children having so!  much!  fun! By picking up fake (let's hope) poop that excretes itself from a toy dog.  If my children find picking dog sh*t up so exciting, they are welcome to walk our real dog and trail behind him with a plastic bag.

3.  Sling Shot  

Like I need a toy that will turn simple household items into projectiles. . .

It's okay Pig.  It's just food.
It's not Love.

4.  Pop the Pig

No surprise, but it’s manufactured by the same warped minds that brought us Doggie Doo.  I just feel bad for the pig, you know?  He stuffs his craw and then he eventually eats so much that he pops.  Maybe he’s an emotional eater.  Or a recovering anorexic.  It’s not my place to judge. . . .

5.   Dreamlight

I will not give this company my money for one reason: their theme song is so nails-down-a-chalkboard, grating-on-my-nerves annoying!  The product is a stuffed toy with a plastic back that lights up and projects shapes onto the ceiling.  The funny thing is, my niece has one and Small loves to play with it, but only during the day.  There’s no way in h-e-doublehockeysticks he’s going to sleep with that thing in the room.

Look kids!  A SnowGlobe!
Shake it.  See what happens . . . 

6.  Ecosphere

My brother-in-law, the Cluer, bought us one of these as a family gift about 10 years ago.  It’s a glass ball with water in it that contains a little shrimp thing and algae and other science stuff.  And it sits on a shelf.  And you look at it.  And it collects dust.  UNLESS, you shake that b*tch up like it’s a snow globe and then stuff it in a moving box that’s headed for a storage facility in New Jersey for 3 years.  Hypothetically.

7.  Kids Boxing Gloves  

Seriously?  There’s no way this would end well.

8.  Bottle Cap Jewelry Kit  

Children can make jewelry out of bottle caps.  I just can’t see the point of purchasing this kit, simply because if my children look on the counter on Sunday morning they’ll have plenty of bottle caps to suit their little jewelry-making desires.

9.  The Love and Grow Baby Doll  

This is *awesome* because once they grow out of the doll phase, they can use all their baby-raisin’ expertise when their poor decision-making skills are rewarded with their own reality show on MTV.

Yours for the low-low price of $19.99
(Plus shipping and handling.)

10.   Stompeez  

They’re advertised as “slippers with personality.”  Um, I’m okay with my slippers being non-personality-having.  They’re slippers.  You can WALK in them.  You can JUMP in them.  You can even STOMP in them!  How do I know all this?  It says so in the commercial.  I'd like to meet the marketing genius who thought a good selling point would be that you could walk in them.  What’s next?  Socks?  I think this is the gift for the kid who was really bad this year . . . 

Glitter is Mommy Anthrax II: I Doubt Martha Has These Problems

The thing about Motherhood is that it provides me with a never-ending supply of anecdotes so that you, my readers, can laugh at my pain.  I choose to laugh right along with you because otherwise I would be locked in a rubber room in a stunning ensemble that doesn’t have armholes. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been on Pinterest.  It is such a time suck and I feel inferior to all the other women out there who have the time/creativity/army of employees to sew their own clothing, pack organic lunches, and concoct their own fabric softener.  

(Let’s pause here for a moment, shall we?  WHY would one make one’s own fabric softener, or any household cleaner for that matter, when these items can be easily purchased for minimal money?  That’s the beauty of progress . . . it’s 2012 and we can purchase these products already made!  It’s called Evolution, folks.  Aren’t we just regressing if we eschew progress instead of embracing the industrialization that eventually culminates in a trip to Target?) 

Okay.  Pinterest.

I was perusing the other day and got a bug up my *ss to make a Fourth of July wreath.  I made my necessary purchases last night during a particularly eventful (screeching, lollipop-throwing, "I wan git out") trip to the craft store, and today Medium and I got to work.  He cut out felt stars for me in red, white, and blue, and we decided to add glitter to the edges to make them spaaaakly.  We used a plate to catch wayward glitter and began decorating.  This is not my first time at the rodeo, you see, and I didn't want to make a mess.

In the interest of being frugal and teaching Medium a lesson in resourcefulness, I folded a sheet of paper in half and fashioned a little funnel so that I could pour the excess glitter back into the tube.  Wouldn’t want to waste any perfectly good glitter. 

I was on the last set of stars.  I worked at the counter, and Medium was sitting on the counter with his feet in the sink and playing with the faucet.  Yes, I know he’s 7; he’s easily entertained.  He extended the hose and was checking out the mechanics of the nozzle.  As I tapped the side of the glitter tube to make sure it settled, Medium turned the water on while it was facing me.   

Chaos ensued.

1.  It's a Beer Baby
2.  It's water and glitter, you sickos.
I'm not Monica Lewinsky

I jumped, startled, and glitter flew ev-ery-where.  It was caked onto my arm, but unfortunately I did not get a photo because I was too busy middle-naming him and experimenting with a new octave.

  

Trying to clean up glitter is like trying to get It’s a Small World out of your head.  You can try and try and try to get rid of it, but it’s still gonna be there.  (You’re welcome.)  Once glitter is on your hands, it magically ends up in your hair, in your eyebrows, in your ears . . . in every nook and cranny you have.  Since the glitter landed on the kitchen floor, it ended up on our feet, so we can look forward to soon seeing it in every room of the house.  I’ll consider it free decorating.  Every room can use a little bling.

For months I will be finding glitter in unexpected places.  That's what I get for liking the spaaaklies.

This is what was left AFTER I washed and scrubbed.

Yes.  That's gonna be there forever.

 It bears repeating:  Glitter is Mommy Anthrax.  That's correct . . . this NOT the first time glitter has proven to be my nemesis.  Read about yet another Glitter Fiasco here.  Apparently it's a lesson best learned the hard way.

New Year's List o' Things I Probably Won't Accomplish

I am not a huge fan of New Year’s Resolutions, mostly because I hate setting myself up for failure.  Don’t you think if I really thought I could lose 10 lbs. by simply resolving to do so starting January 1^st I would have done so by now? 

Nevertheless, I am going to attempt to hold myself accountable by putting some goals (NOT resolutions) out there in the universe.  And by universe I mean the World Wide Internets.  I must admit that I do not have high hopes.  Actually I foresee a post on December 31, 2012 that includes a video of the honey badger and which is titled "Guess Who Else Doesn’t Give a Sh*t?"  

Karma, if you’re out there, please help me out a little.  I try to be a good person.  (Relax, I didn’t say nice person, I said good.  There’s a difference.  This is how I earned the nickname Sweet B*tch in college.)

So here’ goes:

1.  Lose weight

I know everyone says this, but I really need to lose weight.  I remember joining Weight Watchers once . . . yes, I’ve joined MANY times . . . and hearing a woman say her goal was to lose 9 lbs.  NINE lbs.?  I don’t mean to undermine her goal, but to someone who needs to lose, um, more than 9 lbs., that sounds like a good night at Outback, not a goal weight. 

The thing is, diabetes runs in my family.  I don’t want my kids to have the fat mom, and I currently weigh more than I did when I was pregnant.       

Prom, 1991
Although looking at it now, maybe my
Big Hair just made the rest of my
body look smaller . . . 

I have many reasons why I need to lose weight, but the primary reason is that I am getting fat.  Not just “fluffy” like I was before; I mean I’m getting FAT.  I use food as comfort, and I need to remember that food is sustenance, not a hug from the pantry.  I also realize that I have had a distorted body image for a looooong time, meaning I thought I was fat way before I really was.  Now I really am.  (And for those of you who read my previous blog entry about people who post needy messages on Facebook in order to elicit sympathetic responses, this is NOT one of those times.  I don’t need sympathy; I need a life change.)

2.  Prepare and Eat Well-Balanced Meals

It’s no secret that I don’t like to cook.  I like to eat.  Cooking takes too long.  Since Hubby often works late or has evening meetings, I usually make something quick for the boys.  Then I end up eating remnants of grilled cheese or cold spaghetti.  I have turned my kitchen into a restaurant where each diner places his own order.  Since no one likes the same thing, I make grilled cheese for one, macaroni and cheese for another, etc.  Notice there are no requests for vegetables.  I have created these monsters, and I need to put an end to my family’s poor eating habits because I am the main culprit.  

3.  Spend less time on Facebook

Facebook is such a timesuck.  Because I’m so nosy curious, I spend way too much time snooping around in other people’s business.  When I think of all the creative things I could be doing with what little free time I have, it makes me cringe to know that I waste it by cyber-stalking people I barely know.  Plus, I have a bad habit of believing things I read on Facebook, like how happy/fulfilled/successful everybody is.  I need to work on my own happiness, and Facebook makes NO contribution to my overall well-being. 

4.  Stop saying “I’m sorry”

I don’t mean that I need to stop apologizing when/if I’m wrong.  I mean when someone backs into me in the aisle at the grocery store, why is my first instinct to apologize?  I feel like I’m apologizing for taking up space, and that ain’t right.                

5.  Start putting more effort into my appearance

Perhaps this sounds shallow, but I feel so much better when I look better.  I am not the kind of woman who can roll out of bed and look all fresh and eager to begin my day.  Just ask any of my neighbors who have bus stop duty in the morning.  I am aging, just like everyone else, (even though I have a firm plan in place in which I will remain 39 forever.  Not that I’m 39.  Because I’m not.  I’m 38.)  Anyhoo . . . I need to keep up with my hair, my skin, and my style.  (And perhaps shave my legs a little more often.)  There’s no reason for me to be wearing pastel-colored elasticized pants and embroidered blouses just yet.  I remember thinking my mom looked so pretty when she got dressed up and wore makeup, which she didn’t do often because she stayed at home with us kids.  I don’t want my kids to look at me and think, man, Mom cleans up real nice, when she washes her hair.  I mean I'm never going to be a Ginger; I'll always be a MaryAnne.  But right now I look as if MaryAnne got trapped on Gilligan's Island with a keg full o' beer and a never-ending supply of Doritos.

So there ya have it.  My goals probably aren’t much different from anyone else’s.  If I decide not to run the Honeybadger post next year, I can probably re-post this one.  It will probably be just as relevant then as it is today.  Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis . . .                                                       

Facebook Archetypes, part II

I’ve discovered some new Facebook Archetypes to add to my previous post, called Facebook, I Wish I Could Quit You.  I find them to be equally as annoying as the first 10.

1.  What is commonly known as the Vaguebooker.  She posts things like “Why does it have to be so hard?!”  This, of course, prompts replies like, “what’s wrong?” and “call me!” and “hang in there!”  and it leaves me perplexed because I am nosy curious and I want to know what the heck is going on?  It's the Facebook equivalent of the following conversation:

Person A:  "What's wrong?"

Person B:  Sigh.  "Nothing."  (please keep asking me because I need you to know how needy I am.)

The End.

2.  The Self-Portrait Taker.  Now you know I LOVES a good self-portrait, but seriously?  You’ve got 326 “friends.”  You can’t find ONE to take a photo of you?  And since when did the bathroom become a photography studio? 

This IS my sexy face . . . 

3.  The Bra Bragger.  This status update is posted ostensibly to make a point about whatever the cause du jour is, although how posting your bra color is going to cure cancer is questionable.  In reality, this is a means for women to give the illusion that they are still young, vibrant, and sexy.  Because who, (besides me of course,) is REALLY going to post that their bra color is used to be white but is now grey from years of wash?

4.  The Hacker.  He gets into his girlfriend’s account and starts gushing about how in luuuuuve they are.  “My boyfriend is the BEST thing that’s ever happened to me!!!!”  For future reference, if you ever see elaborate PDA posted on my account, you can be pretty sure I didn’t post it.  I love my husband, so I tell HIM.   

5.  The Over-Friender.  This is your cousin’s neighbor’s hair-dresser’s little sister.  You bumped into her at the 7-11 ONCE and now she thinks you’re BFFs and need to be “friends.”  She has 1000+ friends.  Oh mah gah, she is SO popular!

Friend Request, Friend Request, Friend Request . . . 

6.  The Former Teacher.  I will admit I am “friends” with some former students with whom I worked closely when I was employed.  These are girls I coached and worked with for several years.  But it creeps me out when I see former teachers make remarks like “you’re just as beautiful as you were 20 years ago” and “hang in there, you’ll find someone!”  Ooops, I’m sorry!  You must have stumbled across Facebook when you were searching for the Sex Offender Registry.

7.  The Repeat Friend Requester.  Remember the last two times when I didn’t accept your friend request?  It’s not happenin’ this time either.  I have my reasons.  Accept it and be on your way.

8.  The Photo Tagger.  I don’t mind being tagged in a photo in which I look smokin’ and lord knows I love to have my picture taken.  But if I’m stuffing pie in my mouth, (hypothetically, of course,) and you just happened to click at that moment, PLEASE don’t tag me in that photo.  Or else the next time you’re picking your nose, I’ll be watching.  With my camera. 

9.  The TMI Poster.  Recently we lost a member of our graduating class and most of us found out because of an ALL CAPS POST posted by his grieving wife.  I certainly understand the need to disseminate information quickly, but I about had a heart attack when I read the post.  I need to be eased into these things.  I liked being able to share stories and contact info afterwards, but I was wierded out by the whole facebook thing, mostly because I was scrolling through, delightfully learning what so-and-so was making for dinner and what whatsername was buying at Walmart . . . and BAM! 

10.  The Inspiration.  I am all about self-discovery and improvement, but the cheesy inspirational it’s-all-about-the-journey posts on a canvas of beautiful scenery?  I call bull-sh*t.  You know you’re sitting on your couch in your jammies just like I am, so don’t tell me you’re all zen now.

I am the first to fall into that trap of believing everyone else’s life is more glamorous, exciting, and fulfilling than mine.  Trust me.  Please remember to put it all in perspective.  People post what they want you to see.  Facebook is an excellent way to manipulate people’s perception of you.  This is why, from now on, I will be posting portraits

of myself,

my home, 

  

and my children's accomplishments

in order to make you all jealous.

Merry Christmas, Y'all.

In the interest of not ruining anyone's Christmas surprise, I had to postpone publishing this one until today.  Happy Christmas!

You know how I’m not supposed to write about Hubby because he thinks I throw him under the bus?

Is it MY fault he gives me so much material to work with?

Today is December 24, also known as Christmas Eve.  The Day.  Before.  Christmas.  I have had most of my Christmas shopping done for at least a few days now and I have been wrapping like a madwoman so that my family can rip paper off their gifts in a matter of mere seconds.  Hubby took the older two boys to a football game today and the plan has long been for me to wrap the remaining gifts while they are gone.  Keep in mind that I did much the same yesterday, except yesterday also involved a screwdriver and Chinese directions for items which may require some assembly. 

I couldn’t sleep this morning because I kept thinking of all the things I want to get done before our guests arrive for dinner this evening.  I am not a morning person, so when I had returned from Target and was already making Rice Krispie Treats with Medium at 8 AM, Hubby literally felt my forehead for fever.  What can I say?  Mama’s got sh*t to do. 

Before he left for the game, he made an online purchase for his parents on behalf of himself and his two brothers.  Would any particular member of this little trifecta of siblings be picking up said purchase at the store?

N to the O.

That little task was left to me after Hubby asked me if I could do him a little favor and pick something up for him.

Do you know what he wanted me to pick up for him?  A friggin’ television. 

Me:  How am I going to get it out of the store?

Hubby:  Oh it won’t be a big deal.  They’ll have it all ready to go once you get there.

Me:  Remember, I’ll have Small with me.

Hubby:  You should just be able to run in and run out.

Me:  Um, it’s the day before Christmas.  I'm having some doubts . . . 

So I drove to the store, loaded Small up in the stroller, and headed in to “just run in” and pick up my purchase.

Wah?  There’s a line?

We waited.  Small wanted his cup.  We waited some more.  I broke out the snacks.  We waited some more.  “I wan git out,” he says. 

Finally it was our turn with the sales representative.  She checks my ID and the purchase order and then steps over to find my item.  Except she returns empty-handed and tells me my husband just cancelled the order. 

Super. 

I’ve just waited in this line and there are at least 10 impatient customers behind me, who are beginning getting a little testy when my phone rings.

Me:  (super friendly and brimming with adoration for my spouse.)  Yes.

Hubby:  Hello Dear.  So I’m making things more complicated for you.

Me:  Uhuh.

Hubby:  I talked to Cluer (my brother-in-law) and he measured the space and we can get a different size for the same price, so I cancelled the order and all you have to do is pick up the different, even bigger, tv.

Me:  So now I have to wait even longer so they can bring a different tv up from the warehouse and then I need to stand in line, again, to check out?

Hubby:  What’s wrong?  You sound annoyed . . .

Me:  I sound annoyed?  (this comment was met with chuckles from several members of the Last Minute Shopper entourage waiting in line behind me.)

Hubby:  What’s the big deal?

Just so we’re clear . . . the big deal:

1.  It’s now naptime.  I left the house in plenty of time, but I’ve had to wait and now Small is cranky, squirmy, and loud.

2.  It’s crowded.  I don’t like crowds of people as I get easily annoyed by people who stand too closely to me or who have complete disregard for the line of people who apparentlyarejuststandinghereforourhealth, hello???!!

3.  There’s no way to look cool while pushing a toddler in a stroller AND maneuvering a giant television.

4.  WHY did you and your brothers wait until the day before Christmas to make this purchase, and WHY is it that not one of YOU is doing anything more strenuous than clicking “make purchase” on the website?

I am wrapping that bad boy tonight.  And I’m signing the card:

TO:  Hubby's Parents

FROM:  the woman who went to the store on the day-before-Christmas to wait in line, pick up the gift, load it into the car, and then got to go home and wrap it, all with her tired toddler in tow.  And also the Trifecta of Morons who waited until yesterday to buy your gift.