Am I Too Old For This?

So, I was waking up Sunday morning, hung over, and as I fumbled and stumbled my way through the bedroom, (thankfully my own bedroom this time), I had one of those thoughts.
You know the ones I mean.
They come usually on the heels of a hangover, as a plea to the porcelain gods,
“If I make it through this, I’m never doing this shit again!”
Thankfully, it wasn’t quite all that, this time, but it was enough nausea to make me wonder:
How old is too old to be out partying???

I am married with children.
That does not make me dead to the world outside my living room.
Nor does it lessen my love for all things music, nor my affinity for all things alcohol.
If anything, it makes me appreciate those things more.
I seriously doubt that two Saturday nights a month of the kids having a movie night with their favorite cousin (our sitter is my niece) will negatively impact our children, or cause them to question our undying love of them being up under my armpits every second of every day.

All that having been said, I’ll be 35 this year. I have more gray than EmmyLou Harris, which you’d know, if my stylist wasn’t so highly paid.
My knees creak, my knuckles crack, my boobs sag, and so does my ass.
Fine lines radiate outward from both my eyes and lips, early indicators of the deep creases they will one day become, and a sure sign of a lifetime of laughter and love…

I don’t mind aging. It happens to everyone, right?
(Well…everyone that doesn’t go for weekly botox and annual face lifts.)
What I mind is the effect aging may have on my quality of life as I know it.
The simple fact is, my body is trying to tell me something:
HEY YOU! We’re not 22 anymore.
If you want to be able to play with your grandkids, you need to make some changes.
Now.
Drink  less  in better moderation.
Eat a salad now and then.
Stop smoking!
Get some exercise.
(And no, dancing all night at the bar once a month does NOT count.)

The child in me says “Noooooooooo! I’m not this old! This can’t be happening!”
The child in me would plug her ears and close her eyes and say “Lalalalalalalalala I can’t hear you!”

The child in front of me says “Please. Grow up and hang around for a while. I may need you to babysit one day when I want to go out.”




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The Trash Fairy

It is 1:05 a.m. and as I sit here, mindlessly surfing the net out of boredom and insomnia, what should catch my eye? 
The trash can in the kitchen…. its gleaming stainless steel exterior mocking me with its sticky fingerprints and overflowing refuse.

Yeah, I see you. Now shut up.

Am I the only person in this house who knows the mechanics involved in changing out the trash bag?
It seems like a simple enough process.

Pick the full one up and out.
Give ‘er a spin and tie it up. 
Insert new bag. 
Boom. Done. 



But no.
That is apparently just too complicated and time-consuming for this household.
Better to keep packing it in, until it flows over the top and tumbles to the floor.


That’s ok, dears. 
Momma will pick it up. 
I have nothing better to do. 
I need the excercise anyway, right? 
*sigh*

Maybe, if I ignore it, and wish hard enough, the housecleaning fairy will come tonight.
Please, oh please, come visit me!


Oh, and if you could hit the bathroom with your magic wand on the way out, I’ll be much obliged.


 

On The Woes of a Short Attention Span

  • Do you loooove projects?
  • Are you just full of awesome ideas?
  • Are you, dear one, a Pinterest whore?
  • Is the thought constantly spinning through your head that you could do this, that, or the other, and in fact, you should be doing exactly that right now?
  • A perpetual and habitual list-maker, perhaps?



Yeah, well, me too. All of the above, for $500 Alex !
For all of about 5 to 20 minutes … which is about as long as my attention span will hold onto an idea.

I am sure that there is a medical diagnosis for this condition, and that it probably has letters, and they probably make pills for it. I just can’t seem to remember to care long enough to have ever looked into it. 

So, I keep making my lists. 
And losing my lists. 
And starting new lists. 
And augmenting those lists with other lists inside those lists. 
And then losing that list, too. 
It’s a vicious cycle, that list-making.

I can’t count the number of unfinished stuff around this house. 
Things I was soooo gung-ho and excited about, for all of about 3 minutes, until—Oh look ! A squirrel !

Seriously.

If I start something, and don’t finish it right then — I may as well just toss it in the trash. 
I will never come back and finish it. 
Even if it were to be hanging in front of the bathroom mirror with a sign that says MUST COMPLETE TODAY ! 

But, see, I know this about myself. 
I own it. 
I have no illusions of grandeur about all the things I will one day accomplish.

I will accomplish the damn thing today, or just never mind.




Christmas in Dixie

For those of you not in the loop, and I know you’re all just dying to hear…
THIS is how Christmas happened at OUR house: 
Our kids, all but Spawn, were at their other parents’ houses on Christmas morning, so we decided to sleep in, because Spawn doesn’t know any better anyway, and we needed the rest.

I was awakened around 8 a.m. by my SMOKE ALARM going nuts, and Eric shouting from the other end of the house: 
LOVE!!! GET UP ! 
GET UP ! 
Get out of the house! 
Get out of the house! 
The house is on fire! 
Get out! 
The house is on fire!

I got up, naked, quickly pulled on a nightgown and my boots, and ran up the hall. The living room and kitchen were under a thick cloud of black BLACK smoke, and Eric was out on the porch with Spawn, hopping around foot to foot, hollaring: The house is on fire!

I looked in the kitchen, where I could see there were flames coming out of the oven. I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and threw it in the oven. Pssssshhhhhhhhooosh! 
Fire out. 
More smoke. 
Turned on the vent hood, the air conditioners, and opened the windows.

Problem solved.

Apparently, Eric and Spawn had gotten up earlier. Spawn had thrown a toy in the oven, at some point previously. And then Eric went to put corn dogs in the oven for himself, and didn’t notice the toy laying there below the rack.

The day had nowhere to go, but UP, from there.



p.s. Don’t YOU do that. I have been informed since this happened that you should use salt to put out kitchen fires, since most kitchen fires are caused by grease, and water would just exacerbate a grease fire.

 

Little Disappointments…

My daughter is in the fourth grade this year, and now, in addition to normal spelling and grammar, they also have creative writing. These exercises take the form of journal entries in a standard composition notebook with a pre-suggested subject. 
I’m thinking that since I was soooo inspired to start a blog, and then hit a wall with what to write about, I might take some of her ‘suggestions’ and use them for myself! Writing is cathartic, right?

So, her very first one reads like this: 

Write about a time you were disappointed.

What happened?

Who disappointed you?

How did you overcome this?
Ok, excuse me. This child is NINE. A time she might have been disappointed might be when Santa didn’t bring her what she wanted for Christmas. “And I was very sad. But I got a lot of other cool stuff, so I guess it was ok.” 

Or maybe “Once, I wanted to spend the night with my friend, but my mom said no and that made me very sad and disappointed, but then we rented movies and stayed up late and we had fun, so it all turned out ok.”  
I mean, really. Not that she’s spoiled or anything, but hell. 
I’m VERY interested in reading her response to this one.  Maybe I’m underestimating the trauma she has endured.  Pffffft!


***Just as an aside, I read one of hers from last week. 
Who is your favorite heroine?
“My favorite heroine is my mom. She is ausm.” 
Yes. Yes, I AM AUSM. 
This will be a whole new well of entertainment for me. I find my children’s thought process completely fascinating. I’ll be sure and keep yall updated, too. Who knows the kind of deep, mind-blowing thoughts that might come out of a 9 year old!