Frankly, it’s 54F outside right now, and the forecast high for today is in the 60s. On a couple of days next week, it’s supposed to be in the 70s. I will now duck your thrown punches. So, pretty much, no, it’s not really very cold here in Austin, TX.
Last year we had snow a week into the New Year (we were still living in Nashville). Braden expects it this year, and I keep having to tell him we will probably not see it.
No matter the weather, we’re enjoying some Christmas spirit in our home right now. We’ve been tracking Santa already and are currently watching The Polar Express. I sense there will be cookies consumed later today – along with our usual brunsli and spitzbuben, I made these monsters yesterday. Hey, at 433 calories a cookie, it eats like a meal! (Better get out my stretch pants.)
It’s been a wonderful holiday season, from the lights to the tree and the anticipation of the big day itself. Braden’s first time sitting on Santa’s lap and talking to him was a rousing success. My heart definitely grew to three times its previous size.
Now it’s Christmas Eve, and before I completely lose myself in:
- trying not to cry at the insanely joy-filled excitement spilling out of my son (already failed)
- The Polar Express, A Christmas Story, Elf, and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
- a pile of wrapping paper, tape, and cursing ribbons
- smoked salmon, crackers, wine and… yeah, really need to put on those stretch pants soon.
I wanted to share a little ditty with you guys that John and I recorded (home studio + talented musician, FTW!) earlier this month for The Fifth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, hosted by Neil.
Just click the link below to listen to our version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside. And whether it really is cold out for you or not, I hope this warms your heart and spreads a little of our Christmas Joy to you.
From our family to you and yours, have a very Merry Christmas.
Happy Holidays, my friends!
Oh, Raw Honey, look at you sitting there waiting for me! I heard you whispering for me to come over, Raw Honey. And you are sounding soooo really, very good to me right now. Let’s get better acquainted in a situation involving bread and butter, m’kay?
What the hell, Raw Honey…
Why would you toy with me so, Raw Honey? Why would you sit there, practically beckoning to me with your sweet, delicious Raw Honeyness… and then… and then… be… EMTPY?
How cruel you are, Raw Honey!
How. Very. Cruel. You have hurt me deeply, Raw Honey.
*deep, heavy sobs*
What is that you say, Raw Honey? You mean, you didn’t do this to me on purpose? You say it was beyond your control, Raw Honey? You were just sitting there, being Raw Honey and someone came along and emptied all the delicious Raw and sweet Honey inside of you out?
You are telling me that someone scraped you clean, selfishly enjoying every last drop of you, Raw Honey? Someone didn’t share you, but just ate you all in private? Someone ELSE did this to you and then PUT. YOU. BACK?
Just to fool me?
What is that you say, Raw Honey? Yes, Raw Honey, you are right, I *am* feeling rather stabby.
Don’t worry, Raw Honey. I’ll get even. I make all the meals around here after all, right, Raw Honey? People eat what I prepare, without question.
What is that, Raw Honey? You say there’s a funny tone to my laugh? Oh, Raw Honey, just ignore that. Everything is just fine. I am in a peaceful state, don’t you worry. Just overlook the strange new element in my laughter, Raw Honey. I promise, I’m okay. You just rest. Shhh, shhhh, now, Raw Honey.
Someone else better watch his Raw Honey Thieving, Trickin’ a Bitch Ass, though, Raw Honey.
But you? You just sleep now, Raw Honey. Shhhh.
Braden’s personality is this incredibly intoxicating blend of sweet, joyful, and smart mixed up with volatile, demanding, and loud. I’m going to go ahead and claim responsibility for passing on/modeling the former behaviors and blame my husband for the latter. Not because it’s true, but because I’m mostly an asshole and I like to say anything I can to make myself look good.
My son is not shy. He is unafraid to let you, and everyone around you, know exactly what he thinks and feels at any particular moment.
His thoughtful observations and questions [“If the bug is dead, we should just recharge his batteries.” / “Why is the sun sleeping?”]
strange ideas [“My penis is on backwards.”]
silly, quick quips [Him: “You need to get me a new eyeball!” Me: “Just call me Frankenmommy.” Him: “You’re not green.”]
and even his demanding and frustrated exclamations [“I CAN’T GO PEE, I HAVE TO DANCE FIRST.”]
are equally interesting and enlightening, often funny.
He’ll make you think and also laugh.
But did I mention that he’s loud? Holy crap, he’s LOUD. As John put it the other day, “He goes to 11. And often stays there.”
It’s so true.
Because of this, I was both excited and somewhat scared (okay, more than somewhat, possibly a shitload at times, when I considered it too carefully) about Braden’s very first time on an airplane. In fact, as soon as I found out we were going to get on an airplane with him, I started punching myself in the face no less than 10 times every 30 minutes to toughen myself up. I asked John to make airplane noises and then start screaming directly into my ear at random times when we’re in public to help condition me. For some reason he made the same face he made that one time I asked him how long he thought it would take for a mouse to explode in the microwave and whether or not that time would be altered by getting the mouse really drunk first.Read More»
<rambling post of awesomeness>
I have had way too much fun lately. In fact, I told John that I was pretty sure I’m going to die soon and this is The Universe’s way of saying, “Oh, hey, sorry about that…” ahead of time. A lot of times The Universe is a total dickhead, but I can imagine that maybe sometimes it gets bummed out about what a shit it is and tries to be cool to you to make up for it.
It’s kind of like how I pretend to be nice to John every once in a while when I realize I’ve been a total hole for months on end. Cause, you know, a few hours of not actually saying anything derogatory and smiling a lot can make up for endless weeks of torture and passive aggressive quips blended with just out and out aggressive combativeness and demanding, controlling, and manipulative domestic behavior.
God help him if he complains though; then I’m all, “DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE TIME THAT I HANDED YOU A NAPKIN WHEN YOUR FACE WAS DIRTY? I BLEED FOR YOU, INGRATE.”
Or something. But, basically, I know not to push The Universe and all, because it’s just doing the best it can, damnit. Ya dig?
So. Yeah. The Universe is clearly trying to be nice to me because it feels bad about my impending doom.
Either that or it is going to plan such a fiery, explosive and painful ending for me that getting me all complacent and mellow first will make things that much funnier for the bastard when it all goes down. The Universe is probably sitting in a dark room rubbing his hands together, and he’s all, “This stupid bitch has NO IDEA what’s in store for her, man. It.is.going.to.be.EPIC. I am totally going to photograph the look on her face and Twitpic it when she gets hers. MUAHAHAHAH.”
Um. Wow, The Universe just went from being a maybe, kind-of dickhead to a completely sadistic psychopath in my mind. I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve been into the caffeine again. Also the wine. Maybe a little of the blow powdered sugar.
What the hell was the point of this post? Oh, yeah. I’ve been having fun lately – making new friends in our neighborhood, going out with girls I actually like, and generally, well, not being locked in my house like a socially inept, loser ho-bag.
That is, I’ve been pretending I’m not a socially inept, loser ho-bag, and nobody is on to the deception yet, so clearly I am up for the next Academy Award. (note to self: do not marry Jesse James any time soon)
Last Wednesday, in another installment of Happy Fun Times I Should Feel Guilty About (don’t worry, I got mine) I went to an Open House at Beleza Medspa with some lady friends: Blythe (Aka @Bejewell) and Leigh. We needed to learn about ways you can change what nature does to your body, and instead, make it all fake and HOT.
Apparently, Blythe and Leigh were getting drunk for free while they were waiting for me to arrive late (people start drinking to cope with the fact that they miss me, I’m that awesome) (either that or they drink to cope with the fact that I’m about to arrive) and once I got there, we went to a back room to find out about the process of having your facial skin turned from haggarific to Goddess Sheen of Awesometasticness.
This process is also known, to lesser degree, as Let’s Burn Your Ugly Face Off. You’ll only have to hide in a cave for about 4-6 days while all the skin flakes off as if you have some horrible and contagious disease. But after that? YOU WILL BE BEAUTIFUL. It’s a metamorphosis. You have to let your inner butterfly out… by KILLING THE SHIT OUT OF THAT CATERPILLAR we like to call your real face.Read More»
April 26th rolled past me, as it did you. It brought pain and joy and all things in between to him and her and them and the others. It was a day, and we all walked into and out of it, just like we do so many others. Some days leave their marks on you and those marks, be they soft lip prints or jagged, deep carvings, stain you. This is Life’s Tattoo. This is the one that can’t be removed; you just have to learn to live with your new ink. You may even find beauty in it.
I thought about this baby several times on this past day that happened like they all do, as clocks everywhere mark the time that slides by without any effort. It has been 2 years since that first miscarriage, the one that opened the door on a special kind of fear and loathing, and introduced me to the doubt of my female body. On this day I wondered, as I have so many times, who that one could have been if conditions had been just right. I sometimes stare off into nowhere, eyes distant, face slack, thinking these thoughts. Then I sigh deeply and swallow a lump in my throat; my hand may wipe at a tear that rolls absently. Other times I feel a peace, a moving on, an acceptance.
My world feels different than it used to so many moons ago. I am changed. There are some wonderful differences and there are, scattered about, some not so fabulous ones. These things, the changes both good and bad, are all just a part of the What Is. I can handle that. I can roll with it and still find a reason to be, see a splendor in life. It’s always there, waiting for me to rediscover it.
There have been times I didn’t think that was possible – that I’d be able to see beauty and feel bliss in life again, be able to even care if it was there or not. But I hold that knowledge, that truth, close to me now, as I live and breathe. This tender awareness seems to sit in the palm of my hot hand like a smooth pebble. It holds weight and feels cool against my skin. I like it; it grounds me.
I have learned another truth during this time, as well. A less fabulous one, I’m afraid. In every situation during the past two years where I have said to a group of women (of any size) that I have had miscarriages, at least one of them always shares that she has had one, also. There are too many of us. Why does it never fail to shock me, even though I know well by now how often it happens?
To all of you who have experienced this or other painful loss, I thought about you today, too. I felt sadness and tension, and then I released it. I sought the love and peace in my heart. After soaking it in for awhile, I released that into the universe, too.
I hope it finds you, much like a cool pebble that might just land, unexpectedly, in your upturned palm.
Did you know that RUNNING! is awesome? It is. RUNNING! is fun and exhilarating and it tones your body and makes you feel alive. RUNNING! makes you float on a layer of endorphins called Awesomeness Coated in Hell Yes every time you do it. You do a lot of RUNNING! when you’re training for a 5K.
So, what happens when you’ve started training for a 5K and then it gets ass-shattering cold outside, so you start going to the gym with an indoor track to continue your training?
Well, apparently, if you’re using my body, you get a sweet-ass case of shin splints in your left leg, but you keep running on it because you’re a bonafide dumbass. Then, when it starts hurting like the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville, you do some research and find out that shin splints are not uncommon in new runners, especially when using an indoor track that has stupid, shitty, short turns (yes, like the one you started using when it got cold because you’re a whiny pansy-ass). SO, YAY – CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE SHIN SPLINTS!
You employ R.I.C.E therapy like a good, little idiot person who should have done that right away instead of running on the injury, but has now seen the light. You rest, ice, compress, elevate. In fact, to also ‘medicate’ the severe disappointment caused by having to stop RUNNING! you take it to a whole notha level, and you throw down some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy. (All together now, A is for “apple” and “airplane” and “ALCOHOL”)
After a couple of weeks, EUREKA! your leg is healed. To make sure you don’t get too damn happy for too long, you run on it for a week, but then do some stupid exercises one day at home without shoes on after you’ve already run that day, and don’t stretch/cool down when you’re done because your child wakes up from a nap and he’s screaming like a banshee with a porcupine that’s been set on fire shoved up its anus, so you just bolt up the stairs like your life depends on it mid-stupid exercises. (Let’s be totally clear here, it was obviously the kid’s fault. Jerk.)
Later, you realize that you were mistaken before. The shin splint was definitely not the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville. It was clearly only a slighty painy pain that lived somewhere outside of Painstoria. THIS CALF STRAIN IN YOUR RIGHT LEG IS THE REAL HURTIEST HURTY THING IN HURTVILLE.
And it’s on vacation ALL UP IN YO BIZNASS.
So you limp around like you’ve been Kerriganed for over a week. (Again employing a massive dose of R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy, because this is what professionals like you do. You? Are a master at physical therapy. And stuff that requires you to drink alcohol.)
Finally, oh finally, you are healed.
So then you go RUNNING! again because RUNNING! was making you feel so good and so happy and heralding all kinds of gold glitter and rainbows from your rectumular area oh so many weeks ago when you were doing it regularly.
And you know what? RUNNING! is still awesome.
But you are not. Because YOU LOST YO GROOVE while you were all up in some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A Therapy at the Bar in Hurtville/Painstoria for weeks on end.
I’ve got some news for you. Now you have to work back up to the same level of endurance you had before, and oh hell yes, you will. Don’t you doubt that, because you’ve been there before, and you plan on kicking super ass and getting there again in short time. In fact, the bursting feeling in your chest can just GO HOME TO ITS MOMMA, because you are completing every damn interval of every damn train, pushing through the sucktastical feeling of weakness, and you will NOT give up.
You? WILL BE TRIUMPHANT ONCE MORE. Hell, you’re already well on your way as we speak!
However, during your return to triumph, while you’re doing your warmup mile one day, you do think that it would be awesome to do two sets of 50 jumping jacks at 1/4m and 3/4m, and you know what?
You could have been using all that time you spent sitting on your ass with your compressed, iced legs elevated while you sucked down booze and healed doing something you could have really benefited from.
SOME DAMN KEGELS.
I spend a lot of my time with a little boy and a little dog, and we mix it up together with this and that.
Sometimes a little bit of the other.
I am very fond of throwing open the blinds as far and wide as they will go when the sun comes out to play at this time of year. I am not a fan of being cold and gray. I need light and warmth and vibrance or I forget how to breathe.
The dog is very, very fond of sleeping in puddles of sun on the carpet. (I have to admit that I am, too.)
What he did not realize, however, is that if one chooses to sleep among the train tracks of the little boy, one gives up all rights not to be built upon.
I was the foreman, looking on and supervising. I must confess that I felt this was a questionable choice of foundation.
But the builder, the artist, had a vision, and he followed through.
The foundation was kind of not interested in allowing the vision to be realized.
In fact, the foundation was all, “I am utterly displeased with the choice of building materials and deeply disturbed that nobody found it necessary to request my permission to build on these grounds. Oh and I’m definitely thinking of peeing on something you like as a form of revenge.”
But the little boy builder was not going to give up so easily, and quickly went for a second try at his plan once the foundation had resettled.
But the foundation was all, “Uh. No.”
He had other things in mind.
The little boy was unsure of how to proceed.
But then the builder decided he was really always meant to be a masseuse, and a compromise was reached.
And everyone was happy.
Which, when laying in puddles of sunny carpet among train tracks, is really not all that surprising.