I owe you a sincere thanks for not ticketing my dumb ass as it sped merrily through a 45 mph work zone at 60 miles an hour.  While, um, talking on my cell phone.  I deserved that ticket and we both knew it.  Although to be honest, I’m just glad you didn’t clock me five minutes before, when I was flying low at nearly 90.

However, you were kind enough to make me a deal:  if I listened to your brief lecture on the dangers of speeding – especially through construction areas – you’d let me off with a written warning.  This time.

And that, my good sir, is the best deal I’ve been offered in quite a while.

Thanks again, A grateful new law-abiding citizen

*****

Dear Professor Old:

I’m trying to help you.  Really I am.  However, I have to admit that I’m getting a little frustrated.  We’re talking in circles here.

I told you that I’ll take care of getting the letter that you need.  I promise, I will.  That’s part of my job.  And I guarantee that I will get it signed by our authorized organization representative, a person who is also known as an AOR.

But here’s the thing.  You keep tossing around “AOR”, constantly, in every single e-mail that you send, and to quote Inigo Montoya: You keep using that word, and I do not think it means what you think it means.  Yet you continue to emphasize the necessity.  It’s really the priority at this point, you e-mailed me, to get the AOR.

And while I’d love to oblige, something tells me that my boss may object to being gotten.  As I’ve tried to explain, the AOR is a person.  You can get the AOR’s signature.  You can get the AOR a cup of coffee.  However, you cannot get the AOR.

We won’t even discuss the convoluted manner in which you’re approaching your budget preparation, or the fact that I don’t have a clue how to submit your proposal in the first place.  But none of that matters anyway, because as you’ve pointed out repeatedly – the main thing is just to get the AOR.

Best of luck, NonSoccerMom

*****

Dear Cat:

If you don’t shut your face, I’ll be forced to shut it for you.  Just a gentle word of warning.  FTLOG.

Thanks much, Your incredibly disgruntled owner

*****

Dear Miss T:

I love you dearly, you know that, so I just need to throw this out there:

It is really, really embarrassing when I’m carrying you into a public place for you to have your arms wrapped around my neck while loudly yelling, “I want my Mommy!  I want my Mommy!”

Love, YOUR MOTHER

2.  How someone walked off with my car keys after leaving the child care at the gym and did not notice for almost 10 minutes.  What is it that you were doing on the way to your car, lady?  The parking lot isn’t that big.

3.  Why it is that my daughter can take 394732893578540 hours to eat one cereal bar and a handful of Craisins.

4.  This.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS:

Why?  WHYYYYYYYYYYYY is my dryer doing this to my clothes?!  No, why is my dryer doing this to ME?  Maybe it is possessed too.  It’s the only thing I can come up with as to why a years-old dryer with no obvious flaw or recent damage is suddenly eating drawstrings and tumbling my clean laundry into a GIANT EFFING KNOT.  Yes.  Demonic possession.  It’s the only reasonable explanation.

5.  Why at work I am either swamped or completely dead.  It’s either WORK WORK WORK NOW NOW NOW OMG HURRY UP FASTER HURRYHURRYTHINGSAREBURSTINGINTOFLAMES or I don’t get a single e-mail or phone call all day.  PLEASE TO EXPLAIN.

6.  How my memory is so shot, at the age of 31, that I cannot even remember the sixth thing that I don’t get.

7.  WHY MY DAUGHTER IS NOT ASLEEP YET OMFG.

Me:  [sound asleep, 3:07 a.m.]  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh

Me:  [wide awake]  GOD.

N:  [silence]

Me:  zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Miss T:  WAHHHHHHHHH!

Me:  DAMMIT.  [get up, re-pacifier toddler]

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Me:  SHUT.  UP.

N:  PSHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHh

Me:  GODDAMN.  ENOUGH.  [covering head with hot, uncomfortable pillow]

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Me:  [seriously considering going outside in freezing temperatures to retrieve ear plugs that are still in the car from the gun range]

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Me:  [lusting after ear plugs]

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Me:  HUSBAND.  YOU ARE KILLING ME WITH THE WOOSHING.  ROLL OVER!  FOR THE LOVE.

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhh

Me:  [shove husband with foot, HARD]

N:  PSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Me:  [whimpering softly]

N:  [sits up]  What?  Who?

Well, well, well.  My condolences.  It’s quite the predicament you’re in, seeing as they clearly did not equip your Saab with an accelerator.  Shame, that.  Such a nice, shiny, expensive car, and it doesn’t have the ability to go faster than 30 miles an hour in a 60 mph zone.

However, while I sympathize with your obvious plight, please get the hell out of my way.  Because the left lane is for PASSING, not DRIVING HALF OF THE POSTED SPEED LIMIT, and while YOU may not have anywhere to be at 8 a.m. on a Monday, some of us have jobs.

Thanks very much, NonSoccerMom

Dear Subway Sandwich Artist:

I realize it isn’t your fault that Subway chose to discontinue the chicken salad.  I suspected all along that it was a limited time item, and should have paid closer attention to when it was scheduled to end.  That’s my bad.  I should not have snapped at you, folded my arms, and huffed like a petulant child.  It’s not fair to blame the messenger.

But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’re the only person I frightened by my childish display of  irritation.  I’m fairly certain that one of my coworkers – along with the several strangers in line behind him -  is afraid of me now, and he will undoubtedly refuse to go to Subway with me ever again.  Of course, I’ll have to avoid your store anyway, because I totally wouldn’t blame you if you spit in my (NOT CHICKEN SALAD) sandwich from now on.

Sincere apologies, NonSoccerMom

Dear AE:

What the hell, kid?  I don’t have any idea which finger “they” say is stronger and therefore more useful for flicking.  If your middle finger is stronger, then by all means flick whatever it is with your middle finger.  I don’t care.  I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.  I’m tired and it doesn’t make any sense.

Also, ENOUGH WITH THE FAKE STATISTICS.  I am quite certain that no studies have been done to compare the flicking abilities of one human finger versus another.  And if there were, I’m sure that individual results vary widely from person to person.  Just because someone else’s index finger is their strongest, doesn’t mean that it is YOUR strongest finger, and also, why the hell do I allow myself to get drawn into these inane discussions?  You’re baiting me, aren’t you?

By the way, flick all you like with that middle finger just as long as you aren’t using it for flipping.  That’s something else entirely.

Love, Mom

Dear J. Crew:

Generally speaking, I love your clothes.  I truly do.  I’ve been a huge fan since my sophomore year of high school, when I became a snobby snobby label whore.

However.  Lately your prices have become totally outrageous and some of your “styles” are extreeeeeeeeeeemely questionable.  But above all, I’m sick of you clogging my e-mail in-box with eleventy-thousand “sale” ads per day.  Twenty percent off of a hojillion dollars is still far more than I’m willing to pay.  Knock it off, or I may have to unsubscribe to your mailing list.

Cordially, A Loyal Customer

Dear Husband:

I mean it.  If you don’t stop leaving bread crumbs on the kitchen counter, I’m selling you to the gypsies and I’ll make you take the kids.

Love, Your Crabby Wife

And ever since my boss approved the time off, I’ve been waiting for the disaster.  Because nothing in my life is ever that easy, and inevitably something happens when I plan for a day off.  It’s like the universe is trying to keep me from recharging my batteries.  Miss T has had the sniffles all week, then I found out on Monday (the day from hell, OMFG) that a kid in her class has chicken pox.  So I assumed that would be The Thing that kept me from having a day to myself.  And if this whole paragraph doesn’t make me sound like a selfish bitch, I don’t know what does.  But really now.  One day to myself, that’s all I ask!  One day to sit on my ass and do whatever I want, whenever I want to.

However, to my great surprise, so far so good.  It’s hard to type with my fingers crossed, but as of this very moment (11:48 a.m., CST) the only thing out of the ordinary that’s happened has been the mysterious beeping of our home security system.  That started last night, and it’s beyond strange when you consider the fact that we’ve lived in this house for 3 and a half years and the security system has never been activated in all that time.  Anyway, Joe the Security Guy told me that there’s no telling what new “trouble” there is with the system, but he gave me the magical code to make it shut up.

Blah, this post is very rambly and boring, and besides, I’ve got lots of laziness (and laundry, unfortunately) to accomplish today so I better wrap it up.

Happy Wednesday!

I am so, so very sick of being exhaustingly busy at work.  Okay, so I know they pay me to DO MY JOB, and that’s fine because in theory I LIKE my job.  However.  That being said, I used to have occasional downtime.  Time where I could catch up on filing, or updating electronic forms, or other such minutiae.  I even used to write a monthly newsletter for my department.  These days, NO.  NEVER EVER AGAIN.

Take today, for instance.  I have been drowning all week, plus all of last week, and also the week before that.  I had this huge proposal that kept getting pushed down the schedule, because the involved faculty couldn’t get their shit together.  Trying to coordinate a bunch of federally-required bureaucratic information for nine university professors is an awful lot like herding cats.  ANYWAY.  Today I finally had that proposal under control, I got a whole bunch of other stuff out of the way this morning, and I was feeling pretty good.  I walked away from my desk for a moment to turn in another proposal that’s been hanging over my head, and once that was done I felt SO relieved.  FINALLY, a chance to come up for air.  I went back to my desk, only to be greeted by a ringing phone.  When I picked up the phone, it was yet another scatter-brained faculty member logging in a new last-minute proposal – due by the end of the week.  And, I lost it.  I slammed down the phone, fell into my chair and started to cry.  Poor BB heard me from her cube and rushed over to try and calm me down, but it was not to be.  And as luck would have it, right then my boss walked by.  The good news is, she gave that proposal to someone else who is currently less busy (and stressed), the bad news is that I am once again The Girl Who Lost Her Shit At Work.  FAIL.

IT’S A GODDAMN ORANGE, THAT’S WHAT.

Miss T has entered a phase.  It’s a phase I remember from AE’s toddlerhood.  It’s not a phase I missed.  It’s a close cousin of “But why?”, a little something we call “What’s dat?”  From the moment the child wakes up in the morning, she’s pointing at everything under the sun and demanding to know what it’s called.  I realize she’s trying to develop her language skills, and I’m all in favor of this, but she even does it when she knows full well what “dat” is.  And I’m here to tell you, it is all kinds of annoying.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: It’s your shirt.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: It’s Mommy’s shirt.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: Your shoes.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: My shoes.

You get the idea.  Tonight she had some mandarin oranges with dinner.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: An orange.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: It’s an orange.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Me: Still an orange.

Miss T: Orange?

Me: Yes!  Orange.

Miss T: What’s dat?

Bloodbath

I re-dyed my hair on Sunday night, using a slightly different shade than what I’d been using since August.  The original shade was Chocolate Cherry.  The new shade is Burgundy Blowout.  As far as I can tell, the main difference was a little tube of “color boost” that I had to add to the mix this time.  And it looked exactly like blood.

Once time was up I got in the shower to rinse and HOLYYYY CRAP.  I now know what to expect if I ever murder someone and try to wash away the evidence.

Speaking of murder, I thought N was going to murder me when he realized I got some of the color boost on the front of our white cabinetry.  Oops.  Time for a trip to the hardware store to pick up some Kilz.  That shit STAINS.

Interestingly, my hair color is not drastically different from the last shade.  A little redder, yes, but a lot of people haven’t even noticed.  I guess now they’re so used to red-headed me that a different shade of red isn’t all that noticeable.  Either that or they hate it and are too nice to do the head-tilt “Oh!  You dyed your hair again!”  Hmm.

At least now we can afford white cabinet paint

We finally got the bill from George the plumber, and it was a mere $84 dollars.  I mean, it’s not like I WANT to spend $84 on plumbing services, but considering my propensity for breaking the handles off of sinks, it’s good to know that it won’t break the bank the next time we require George’s services.  And I’m sure that we will.

On Friday night we stole a dog (as told in an e-mail to my sister, mildly edited for clarity)

We were walking our dog on Friday evening and saw that our neighbor’s Shih Tzu had gotten out of their backyard and was running in the middle of the street, and they weren’t home. But we weren’t 100% positive that it was their dog, so we asked the neighborhood busybody (you know, the one who knows everything about everyone, every street has one) if it was and she wasn’t sure either. ANYWAY, since we had a babysitter coming and didn’t want to deal with it we put the dog in the (alleged) owners’ backyard and ran away, hahahahahahahaha.

But then N looked outside five minutes later and it had gotten out AGAIN (pretty much proving it belonged in that yard since it figured out how to escape so fast), so he went and caught it (much to my annoyance because I wanted to stay out of it at this point, since we were not going to be home and I didn’t want it to be the babysitter’s problem, but as he said, PEOPLE HAVE SEEN US WITH THE DOG. WE ARE ALREADY INVOLVED), and put it in our dog’s crate in the backyard, where it stayed, worrying the hell out of our pets all night, and also ME, because I felt like a Dog Thief. AND THEN HE MOVED THE CRATE INTO MY KITCHEN. AND I WAS MAD, AND HE SAID I WAS BEING A BITCH (WHICH I TOTALLY DESERVED BECAUSE IT WAS VERY TRUE) AND WE HAD A FIGHT. And then all of the bitching was for naught because the dog was incredibly well-behaved all night, and he took it back to the grateful owners the next morning who were very worried and had already put up “missing” signs, and their mentally handicapped son was very glad to see it. The end. So went the Saga of the (Not)Stolen Dog.

And then on Sunday I broke the sink

I seem to have a Useless Superpower, y’all.  And that superpower is the ability to break faucet handles simply by touching them.  I broke the hot water handle on my bathroom sink like a year ago, and Sunday I broke the one in the kitchen.  Our bathroom has two sinks.  Our kitchen does not.  This poses a problem.  N was at the gym and I was trying to feed the kids lunch, and the freaking handle breaks off of my faucet when I touched it.  I had my poor tolerant mother on speakerphone when it happened and the conversation went downhill pretty fast:

Mom: So your dad and I were talking and-

Me: GODDAMMIT.  GODDDDDDD.  DAMMIT.  What the-

Mom: WHAT is going on?  Are you okay?

Me: FREAKING A.

Mom: Are the kids all right?  What?

Me: FREAKING SINK.  I JUST BROKE THE FREAKING SINK.

Mom: How did you manage that?

Me: I DON’T KNOOOOOOOOOOOW.  THE HANDLE JUST FELL OFF.  IN MY HAND.  MY HUSBAND IS GOING TO KILL ME.

Mom: Were you forcing it or something?

Me: NO.  I BARELY TOUCHED IT, I SWEAR TO GOD.

Mom: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Me: THAT IS NOT HELPING.  WHAT DO I DO?!

Mom: Ha ha ha ha!  Ha.

Me: I HAVE TO GO.

Mom: Good luck!

So then I posted about it on Facebook and Twitter because I knew N would see it and I wouldn’t have to actually explain.  And sure enough, he came home with a look on his face that can only be described as bemusement.  I don’t think he buys my story that it JUST HAPPENED, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING, but I can’t say that I blame him because I wouldn’t believe me either.

And then George entered our lives

So N was going to replace the faucet himself (which had to wait until Monday, because he and AE already had plans to go to Houston on Sunday evening so he didn’t have time and I had to cope), which would have been fine, except the bolt holding it in place was rusted beyond the point of being removed.  He tried for half an hour to get that thing off, but no.  So I resigned myself to calling a plumber and first thing Tuesday morning I tracked down a coworker who bought a fixer-upper house not too long ago.  I knew he’d have a recommendation and sure enough, he did.  So I called and they actually were able to get someone over within a few hours.  George was on the case.

It didn’t take him long, of course, because he had the proper tool, and within an hour we had running water in the kitchen once more.  And then I asked George what I owed him and he goes “Oh, we’ll bill you.”  And then I died a little on the inside, because THAT cannot be good.  But!  Running water!  It makes life easier.  Yet another reason I’m glad I wasn’t a Pilgrim.

And then work nearly killed me

But it didn’t, so I get to go back tomorrow and do it all over again.

Meet the Teacher Night went fine, although there’s a kid in AE’s class who he’s gotten into trouble with during summer camp so I’m not sure that bodes well.  There’s another kid in the class who is one child of SEVEN in her family.  OMG, seven children, all of whom appeared to be under the age of nine.  The mind, it boggles.

I’ve been all kinds of cranky and out-of-sorts today.  The only household chore I’ve managed was to change the sheets on AE’s bed, a task that is not as simple as you might think.  It actually occurs with embarrassing infrequency, because his bed is a loft with a tent over it and therefore a giant pain in the ass to put sheets on.  Couple that with his hoarding tendencies, and it just becomes too much of an effort to move down the eleventy-thousand books, stuffed animals, little toys, multiple pillows, blankets and kleenex.  Seriously, the kleenex.  I sent him up there with a plastic grocery bag to gather all the wadded tissue he collects.  He counted as he threw them in the bag.  I left the room, came back to hear “fifty-six, fifty-seven”, became horrified, left again, and came back as he put in the last one – “ninety-two.”  NINETY-TWO.  MY CHILD HAD A MOUNTAINOUS PILE OF WADDED SNOT RAGS IN HIS BED, NINETY-TWO TISSUES DEEP.  I AM A HORRIBLE, DISGUSTING PARENT RAISING A  HORRIBLY DISGUSTING CHILD.

Speaking of being a bad parent, if I don’t go to the store this afternoon my children will have nothing to eat.  Ugh, and it is already 3:45.  I guess I should go.  Blah, and flurg, and HATE.

NO GOOD.  She enjoyed being rocked and sang to a little too much and now she wants me to do it every night.  N gives me a hard time about being hard-nosed, BUT NOW I KNOW.  THIS IS WHY WE DO NOT DO THIS.

Monday night she screamed for two hours.  TWO.  SOLID.  HOURS.  And it was just that, pissed-off angry screaming.  If I went in there and stood by the crib patting her back, she was happy as a lark.  As soon as I pulled my hand away, angry yelling and screaming.  We haven’t had to do the whole cry-it-out bit since she was less than a year old and didn’t talk, and let me tell you firsthand, it is heart-rending when you hear that voice screaming MAMA!  MAMA!  MAAAAMAAAAAAA!  over the monitor.  There were tears on her part, there were tears on my part, and frustration all over the place for my poor husband.  Basically it sucked.

Last night was better, she reduced the amount of screaming to slightly less than half an hour.  We’ll see how she does tonight, but I’m willing to bet she’ll scream for at least a few minutes.  She is stubborn, that one.

Oh wait, I totally had a point.  (GOD I am long-winded and boring sometimes, so sorry about that).  THE POINT:  I have not been enjoying my evenings all that much, even though I am on vacation.  I was hoping to sit down with my husband and relax without having to go to work the next day.  (Relax = drink wine.)  Alas, no, it has not been working out that way.

And then this morning, I had to drive my poor husband to the ER as he suffered through a kidney stone attack.  Fortunately, he did not suffer for nearly as long as he did the time before, because the lovely nurse gave him morphine almost immediately.  Once that kicked in, he was good to go and actually we were only there for a couple of hours before they determined that the worst was over and he could go home.  Poor AE was about bored to tears, though, so there was THAT driving me nuts too.

And now there’s this post driving me nuts.  It is boring and whiny and crappy and whose dumb idea was it to blog every day this week anyway?  Oh.  Dammit all to hell.  Well, since I started it I’ll finish it I suppose.  And by “it” I mean THIS POST.  Shut up, Self.  GOD.

Once the downward spiral had started, not even coffee could save me.  Believe me, I tried.  But the same person** that manages to make my life frustrating all on his lonesome was coming at me from all directions, most of them indirectly.  Like, HE wasn’t even the one e-mailing me to say HEY!  I’m a pain in your ass!  Other people were e-mailing me to say HEY!  This guy?!  I’m going to make it so that he’s a pain in your ass!  I believe at one point I sent an IM to BB that just said KILL KILL KILL.  Followed by one to Clark W. Griswold that extolled the many virtues of vodka shots and their value in the workplace.

Anyhow, I will say that there is one thing that managed to pull me back from the brink.  And that thing is Chick-fil-A.  Oh, combo meal #1 with Polynesian sauce and mayo, how I love you.  I’m sure that everyone within a mile radius loves you too since I can’t yell with my mouth full.  And I know there hasn’t been cocaine in Coca-Cola for like a hundred years but I think my Coke Zero may have been laced with something today because after a few sips I was high as a kite and happy as a clam.

I’m not sure that I have a point here except to say Hello!  I haven’t posted in a while, and also, Happy Monday!

*Clark W. Griswold tells me that “stabby” is not a valid emotion.  To that I say, why don’t you wait until I violently attack you with my pen and then decide if that’s how I was feeling.

**I like my job, yo.  That’s all you get in terms of details.