Click.

A ho-hum Wednesday morning. I wake up, put the coffee on, wait for the sound of small footsteps trampling down the stairs, wait for the rush of three breakfasts and three clothes changes and two backpacks, school lunches, goodbye kisses, walking to the bus stop, still in my pajamas. Busy busy busy, always so busy, rushing from one thing to another, one child to another, dodging grief that threatens to sit on my chest until I cannot do anything but gasp for air. My dad is gone. He is gone, gone at the hands of what used to be one of us, and everything written on the lists is checked off, done. Funerals, packing boxes of his things, the first court date. Now I just miss him, a hole in the seemingly perfect little world I had created for myself. So us girls, we check on each other more often, say I love you with more meaning, mend things that need mending between family members, because if you can't learn love from this, then there's no hope for any of it. A normal Wednesday morning with text messages to make sure everyone is okay, or as okay as we can be. This is what we do now: tally the living. Make sure everyone is accounted for, because it can sneak up on you in a second, someone leaving. During the third cup of coffee I realize I haven't spoken to mom in a couple of days, send off a fast text just to check in with her. "Everything ok? Love you, call me after work." I head off into my day, laundry, errands, cleaning, taking care of the baby. I notice I haven't heard back from mom yet, but know that it is probably because she is at work. I text the sisters to see if they have heard from her, we compare notes about when we each last spoke to her. I was not the last, so I feel better. I send another, joking text to mom. "I am calling the police if you don't text me back, I swear to God. Don't be alarmed when they come knocking on your door to check on you, haha. You can yell at me later." Haha. She can yell at me later. I am joking, nervous laughing, knowing in my head that she's just busy at her new job and knowing in my bones that this is not true. I head to the chiropractor for therapy, an injection in my spine for nerve damage. I will always remember this, and, after today, will never return to this doctors office. I take the baby to a quick lunch, but we never make it in the door. I am not out of the car before my phone rings, and it is one of the sisters, one of the sisters that I don't regularly talk to on the phone so I know this means business.------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am five years old, helping mom wallpaper the dining room. There are only three babies, so we still live in a small house, and mom is wallpapering the dining room. I read books beside her in the sun coming through the windows, listening to her hum as she works. I sit up to watch, noticing that the pattern on the paper looks like tiny duck's feet in a basket. She laughs and says I am imaginative and quite observant. The whole exchange is written in my baby book, and I find it years later. But I already remembered.---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am eight years old, and my parents are going out for the night, leaving us with a babysitter. Watching her get dressed in her dressy clothes, carefully applying her pink lipstick. I think she must be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I want to be her when I grow up. She winks at me as she sprays perfume on each wrist. Later that night they will get home and I will hear both of them come into my room to tuck me in tighter. My mom lingers longer to give me an extra hug, and I smell her perfume on her neck, mixed with cigarette smoke. "Some people were smoking", she said, and I nod, not caring because it smelled grown up and good to me, like how probably fancy people would smell at midnight on a Saturday.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am twelve years old and at track practice. She is there helping to assist the coach, she used to run track, too, and helps out when she can. Setting up the hurdles and walking back to the starting line I catch her staring and smiling, and I throw my hands up in the air. "What?!" I yell, maybe a small bit annoyed. "Look at your long legs. You are so graceful. I don't know how you glide over those things so easily. I am so proud of you." I roll my eyes, since that is what you do when you are twelve and your mom says things, anything, in front of your friends. But I smile when I turn around to run. I am loved, and she is proud of me. I remember this. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am seventeen and fighting with her. I want to go out with friends, and she says that I will go upstairs and change clothes before I leave. I say awful things to her, but I don't stop, not considering how I am hurting her. I am seventeen, I don't care yet. She stands strong and I change clothes so I can go. Years later as a parent I say I am sorry for the things that were said, and she shrugs it off. But I know since I am a parent how hurtful that would be, and I always remember this.------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am getting married and everyone I love is around me, fussing over me, bringing my flowers, helping me dress. My parents, long divorced, are there and hugging each other and crying over letting their first girl go. It is a perfect, flawless memory, and I always remember it.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am fending off phone calls every ten minutes asking if I am in labor yet, if the baby is coming. I think that never in the history of babies has a baby been so anticipated, and I wish they would anticipate her a little less. Everyone at the hospital and she is here. I have never known love like this and my heart is bursting at the seams and I am so so tired and I look at my mom and think "Oh. So, that was this." I know it all in an instant. We went from mother and daughter to something more in the blink of an eye. Mothers, friends.-------------------------------------------------- Click. There are hundreds of phone conversations, more babies, tears, but mostly laughter and joy and food. Then the one conversation that sounds like screeching tires when I remember it now: Your dad is dead. Then blurry, stumbly days and weeks go by and we bury my sweet dad and we talk to police and we steel our hearts against what is coming. The hearing and saying of things that should never be heard or said, things that people wouldn't guess unless we told them, they are that bad. The information sometimes leaks in slowly, we are not privy to everything they know, surprisingly. This feels like insult upon insult, that we are kept in the dark about such important things. But somehow each trickle feels more like a blow to the gut, sucking all of the air out of the room, when we ask for information it feels like asking for a black eye. Still, we call each other, we check on each other and care for each other and form what feels like a tiny makeshift island of survivors who only have each other to lean on while all of the shiny happy people pass by us, smiling and wondering what is wrong.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. I am talking to my husband, saying that mom doesn't seem to be doing too well, she is not eating and she doesn't sound good. None of us are good, that word hasn't entered the conversation yet. But even still, this is a lot to handle, knowing ones own can grow into what he has grown into, doing the heinous things he has done to someone that she cares about, had babies with, was in love with once. We talk about the possibility of asking her to live with us in the future, let us take a little of the burden off of her just for a bit. We decide we will keep talking about it and ask her when she seems to get worse, if that happens. I will always, always remember this.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Click. Sobbing, screaming at me that she is gone. My sister doesn't sound like herself, I don't know who this is that I'm talking to right now. What is happening? No, this is not that, she's just at work we will get her home and ask her what the hell she was thinking, making us worry about her like this. I am so mad that she would make us worry about her like this. But as I am thinking this my car is steering itself out of the parking lot, and I find myself at my husband's office, so my hands at least know what is true, has been true since early that morning while I went about my busy day, kissing kids and packing lunches and folding tiny clothes. I fall to the pavement outside the building, screaming that she's gone, my mom is dead, but not crying. My body will not let me cry. I heave and spit and lay there, but I do not cry. I think, "I am out of tears, a person can ACTUALLY run out of tears. Huh." So I sit, staring at nothing, at the sky, smoking cigarette after cigarette until my fingers burn, because that seems like the only thing to do: look up at the sky for answers and smoke. I don't even know where they are coming from, someone is handing them to me one after another and no one is speaking. I am an hour away, and I think that my sisters are there, at her house, and click. I think about the news reports of a large black bag being wheeled out of my dad's house on a gurney, into an ambulance and I know what my sisters are seeing at that moment. I know they will be the first inside her house, all the photos of grandkids and finger paintings and her sink probably still full of dishes from the day before. I think of my mom's mom and sisters at the beach on vacation, getting the news that we were all too late and they are too far away. Still I do not cry. My head is a movie, playing every memory that has been burned into it over the course of 32 years, because you don't have to die for your life to flash before your eyes. I do not cry. I realize that I do not have the same thoughts after we were told my dad was gone, when something like that happens it is big, it is news, there are questions, it is not commonplace and it is shocking to your core, so you scream questions and demand answers and there are people to help answer those questions and there are things to do to make you feel useful, like you are doing something. But this. This is a slipping. It is a slipping away of her, and it is too late to grab at anything. There are small questions to ask later, but they won't make a difference at all, not in the slightest. There is no one to point a finger at, to arrest, to place all of our hatred onto. This is a slow sliding away, her sliding through my hands, sliding away and I didn't even know it was happening.

Is this real life? Where am I?

Holy shit, I am blogging. It seems I may have taken such a long hiatus from this blog that I, um, missed a WHOLE SEASON OF THIS YEAR. This shall be known as The Year That Spring Did Not Happen On The Harris Family. It was brought to my attention that I haven't blogged since the dead of winter, and so I am all set to remedy this situation. With pictures! And boring updates! I could spout off the same old, tired "We've had SO much going on, I just couldn't blog." But that isn't true, not really. I've just kinda...been....I don't know. Busy? Kind of, a little bit. But more than that I think I've just got more on my plate every day than I used to have. Finding that ever elusive "balance" has proven harder and way more challenging than it used to be, what with two actual kids, not a kid and a baby anymore. And keeping up with those kids, and the house, and cooking, and carving out some me time for workouts and friends. So while I am shifting things around and putting things in their places and rearranging life like a Rubik's cube to make everything just FIT, dammit, I will at least throw you some photos and get you up to speed on the happenings here.

-THIS happened. I don't really want to talk about it right now.



My BABY. Is a Pre-K graduate.



She was so excited, and felt like the occasion called for a celebratory dance. 'Cause those two years of preschool were HARD, y'all.



Next stop: Kindergarten. But only after we have on hell of a summer. I want it to be full of just fun stuff...the pool, friends, books, art projects that make a mess, and probably lots and lots of glitter. We will deal with kindergarten when it gets here. But for now we are enjoying the sun and laid-back-ness that summer has brought with it.

-The husband and I took a trip! The first travelling we have done alone since we had Charlie. And it. was. GLORIOUS. Three nights in Vegas was just the break we needed, and it made me oh so appreciative of the semi-quiet life I lead back here in the middle of nowhere.







-Recital. Or more accurately, Ella's first and last dance recital. She is adamant that she does not want to take dance lessons again this fall, but you could have fooled me because this girl had the time of her life at the big show last week. Girlfriend was in seventh heaven with all of the sparkly costumes and tons of makeup and being the recipient of large bouquets of flowers.














She tapped and twirled and waved to us from the stage and danced her little heart out and had fun doing it. So I guess this year was a success, even if she didn't find dancing to be her "thing".

And now it is officially summer, which means the sprinkler and slip-n-slide have been christened, lemonade drunk, delicious summer food grilled on the deck while the grown ups sip ice cold beer. Everything in my house is beginning to smell like sunscreen and fresh-cut grass, and I love it. I have a feeling this is going to be a fantastic summer. And if you need me? I'll be outside playing with the kids, getting soaking wet with the hose, and probably laughing.

A smattering of pointless crap.

Snow storms, pop-up warm patches of weather, family members in bad health, dogs who insist on pooping behind the couch no matter how many times you take them outside I AM TALKING TO YOU, ALICE, kids with head colds and green snot, kids getting shots at the doctor and screaming bloody murder, and, later today, more snow storms! My head feels like it is about ready to explode. I offer up as proof of my mental status the fact that I was debating between writing about those Vicks-scented Kleenexes or Things That Can Possibly Make Your Dog's Turds Turn Purple. All of that to say, I've got nothin'. So I give you a post about...nothing. Random thoughts from a stir-crazy mom over the last week or so. You're WELCOME.

Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale. Also known as Barbie: Catalyst For The Apocalypse, End Times Are Drawing Near. This movie made me want to stab both my eyeballs and eardrums just to escape the glitterific awesomeness that is this movie. Thanks, Barbie, for stealing not only an hour and a half of my life, but also parts of my soul. You entertained my five year old and made her scream with glee, but these are some of the comments that could be heard from the husband's side of the couch while watching your movie. "I wish that Barbie would run for president. You know, so someone could assassinate her. I would do it. I would risk it." And, "I wonder if they could have found a way to put Barbie on the spaceship Challenger." And (after watching seventeen previews for other Barbie movies in which she discovers she is both a championship surfer and a mermaid, both a fashionista and a fairy), "Next up, Barbie: The Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Her crown of thorns has sassy sparkles!". This is the trailer for the Fairy Secret video. She's walking the runway. She's fabulous and glittery. She's.....A FAIRY?! Holy shit! Barbie? You just made me question everything I know about reality.



_________________________________________

Dear Gym Bunnies: You know who you are. You know why you are at the gym (hint: It isn't to break a good sweat and get in shape). You should also know that you look like an imbecile, strolling out of the locker room wearing shimmery eyeshadows, hot-pink lipstick, and a tshirt so tight that I can see your nipples through it. Stop. Just stop it now, mkay? You could just do us all a favor and stand outside with a sign that reads "I am here to pick up guys. Call 931-555-5454 if interested." You would also save yourself the embarrassment of walking at a one-mile-per-hour pace on the treadmill while flipping your ponytail in the direction of the losers over in the weights section. Can I ask you something, Temptress of the Treadmill? Why do you think it is that you see the same backwards-ballcap-wearing morons at the gym at 9:30am every single day? I'll tell you a secret: It's because they more likely than not DON'T HAVE JOBS. They are mid-to-late twenties losers who live with their parents and watch Jersey Shore marathons, and have the spare time to spend five hours a day at the gym. Just so you know.



Sadly, this picture is not far off from what I see at the gym every day. What you can't see is the smell of desperation and the half-a-bottle of Clinique Happy in the air.
________________________________________________

The husband and I recently (a good two years behind the rest of civilization, I know) watched Food Inc. And I wanted to throw up, then clean my refrigerator and pantry of every single thing and start over. And then maybe throw up some more. Y'all, meat is disgusting. It would seem that it is making us sick and/or possibly killing us. Resisting the urge to drive an hour to Whole Foods and blow five hundred bucks, the husband and I decided that we would go organic for the really important stuff: Meat, milk, eggs, fruits and veggies. We just can't realistically afford for EVERY single thing in our house to be organic or all natural. We agreed that sometimes it's just okay for a kid to have a frozen Eggo waffle. But today. OH, today! I met a mother that just takes the cake (the cake would almost certainly, in her case, be flour-less, egg-less, gluten-free, and consist mainly of air and love). At the library she raved on and on about how a good 50% of her husband's salary goes toward making sure that every single bite of food that passes her children's' lips is organic and dairy free. She ranted about how she is currently MAD at Whole Foods because of some super scandalous alfalfa sprout controversy. Alfalfagate 2011, I assume. This woman didn't know a single person in the room, yet projected her beliefs and cuh-raziness onto anyone unlucky enough to be within a twenty foot radius of her. After a (no joke) fifteen minute long lecture on why her kids don't eat meat and it causes them to have crazy tantrums and be out of control, her five year old daughter began to beat a little boy's head with a toy truck. OrganiMom rushed over, scooped up her daughter, and held her tightly while whispering weird sounds. Probably putting a curse on the little boy's mother because they had said something about going to McDonalds for lunch. Anyway, the little girl just kept screaming and screaming and STILL TRYING TO HIT THE BOY, who couldn't have been more than two years old. I was dumbstruck. At that moment, another mother who I presume I could be best friends with based on her quick wit, whispered, "Hmmm. Maybe she got a hold of some meat?" Ha. Ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA.



"Chicken McCruelty: Broken Wings And Legs...but SOOOO GOOD!"

I can see now how the whole Unabomber thing happened.

I woke up to this:



And this:



And briefly felt like this:




For all the amazement and shrieks of delight that a heavy snow elicited from me as a child, I have now gone to the exact opposite side of the excitement spectrum over this issue. Snow as a kid: +7,058 Joy. Snow as an adult: -7,058 Joy. The shortest days of the year suddenly turn into very, awfully long ones, filled with "Can I go play in the snow NOW?" and "I have to PEE!" as soon as that last zipper is zipped, and finally "Just go watch one more movie and stop fighting over the two My Little Ponies, my GOD, they are identical in every way." The isolation, at least for me, is extreme. I can see how people forced (for whatever reason...either the force of others or the crazy voices in their own head) to live completely alone can lose it, maybe just a little bit. That the Unabomber came up with a conspiracy theory and then sent out packages that exploded with nails and shrapnel or whatever the hell he did after living in a one-room shack in the wilderness doesn't seem quite so insane when I am staring down the barrel of a twelve hour day alone. I pride myself on getting things done, so much so that I have a schedule for nearly every day of the week. Go to the gym every weekday? Check. Drop off/pick up from preschool, followed by a quick lunch and nap time? Check. Art and reading time after naps, followed by dinner and family togetherness and bedtime? Check check check. But I am rapidly learning that my confident, pulled-together self rapidly frays into tiny bits and pieces when faced with the dreaded Snow Day. What should we do? We can't go anywhere, so that leaves...???? I never really know. I settle for a drawn out breakfast hour, then maybe some coloring and painting, moving quickly from one fun idea to the next, and before I know it we have run out of things to do. Which is why I came up with this next doozy of an idea. In hindsight (looking out of the laundry room, might I add) this maybe wasn't the best use of our time at home. Ella sure had fun, and God help me, Charlie had fun, and aside from the lip gloss now staining my bedspread, I actually enjoyed it. Ask me again how I feel about these precious memories when the lipstick doesn't wash out. And now, I give you...The Snow Day That We All Got Makeovers With Mom's Makeup.

Getting started...the possibilities for color combinations are ENDLESS! And yes, that is a Christmas dress. At the end of January. What of it?









We even learned about testing/matching colors on our hands first. This resulted in two cream blush covered hands. Guess what? Cream blush is apparently soap AND water proof! Aha!



Wait, who is that sneaking in on the action?



Well, hello.



Once Charlie got his hands on a brush and a compact and a tube of lip gloss, nothing was spared.

The bed.



My legs.



My face.



His face and my legs.



But Ella had the most fun a little girl can possibly have, using grown up makeup meant for grown up faces, feeling so fancy and like such a "grown up lady woman", as she put it. As she posed and pursed and twirled in her Christmas dress and hooker makeup, I figured that even if I had to do seven loads of laundry to rinse out the stains, it was worth it.

Snapshots of a snow day.

It snowed! Again! School is cancelled! Again! Rather than let this loss of a schedule get me down, I resolved this morning to make it the best, most lazy snow day ever in the history of snow days. So we will build with blocks, read books, lay about on the couch, listen to good music while we clean, make blanket tents, bake something yet to be determined, brave the cold to play in the snow, cook dinner all day in the crock pot, and make the most of this most recent stuck-inside day. And drink lots and lots of coffee.

Working Hypothesis: Most alcoholics have two year olds.

Has lost his will to live, for no other reason than the sun chose to rise again that morning.


There is a general rule of thumb in parenting, kind of sort of, that girls tend to experience the Terrible Threes and boy children stick to the more traditional Terrible Twos. Many a play date was centered around discussing this theory: the moms of boys watched in horror while their little darlings laid in the middle of the parking lot and screamed bloody murder, while us girl parents looked down to see our now-horrified precious little angels watching the whole spectacle, no doubt wondering what in the hell was wrong with that kid. Same scenario, one year later, but flip the gender roles on their heads. Girls screaming and crying and sassing it up at age three, three year old boys playing tag in the background. I used to think, Hey! Things are pretty even, every kid eventually gets around to the Tantrum Stage in life. What does it matter when it happens?! I will tell you what the hell it matters, people. Ever talked to a two year old? And then talked to a three year old? Now tell me which can talk more clearly, can say more words and articulate what they want or need. Also? Three year olds, while still very much works in progress on the whole "Controlling My Emotions" front, are just that much better at, well, controlling their emotions than their 24-month-old peers. So while Ella's tantrums at age three were pretty bad, Charlie's at age two are, well, indescribable. There is no logic. There is no reason. There is only screaming, crying, throwing things, RAGE. If you have ever tried to reason with a legitimately insane human being (one who also has the tendency to throw their body on the floor and writhe about as if they are repeatedly being stabbed with a fork) then you might have one speck of an idea what two year old tantrums are like.

Yesterday was an epic day in Tantrumland. Epic, I tell you! Let's examine all of the "reasons" that Charlie decided that he hated his life and everyone in it. And probably a lot of people who aren't.

1. Inferior tv programming schedule. Super Why is not on tv. This means that you should definitely throw your breakfast plate across the room while shrieking at the top of your lungs and walking clumsily from room to room because you are just too forlorn to sit still, you must pace the floors. Also a good idea is to keep walking at a fast pace even when your tears have become so thick that you cannot even see where you are going, because this will ensure that you run into at least one wall or piece of furniture and do bodily harm.

2. You got hurt. See #1. Injuries can include, but are not limited to, bumps on the head and/or face from walking into the corner of a wall, scrapes on your legs from tripping over something like oh, I don't know, YOUR BREAKFAST PLATE THAT IS NOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR.

3. You want juice, and you don't really care that I just gave you juice. This particular variety of tantrum is especially intriguing to me (Read: Horrifying and the absolute bane of my existence). While having one of the previously aforementioned tantrums the yelling and crying is just as loud as with any meltdown, but at least the parent knows why the kid is upset. You can pinpoint the problem and either fix it or not, but you know what the problem is. Oh, but in this type of screamfest there is no problem. There is only this: Kid wants juice. Mom fixes a sippy cup of juice and hands it to kid. Kid sobs and screams that he wants JUICE. Mom reasons with kid that she just gave him juice, see, it's in your hand, darling?! Kid throws sippy cup of juice against the wall, all the while screaming for juice. Mom gives up and walks away, which makes screaming toddler even more mad, so kid picks up cup of juice and throws it against something else, probably a table or a pet, just for effect. He wants you to know that he wants his juice, and he is going to let you know it by....throwing his juice across the room? Jesus Christ, kids are batshit crazy.

4. I do mysefff. There are many different ways that this particular tantrum can manifest itself, but in Charlie it is almost always the same way as #3 up there. As a stay at home mom, I usually have plenty of time to let my kids do things themselves when and how they want to do them. Want to try and master the art of zipping up your own coat? Great! We don't have to be anywhere any time soon. But Charlie is having none of it, he has truly stepped up his game in the "I do MYSEFFF" category. Last night we hit an all time high (or low? Who knows! What I do know is that this encounter left me ready to slam my face through a wall just to relieve the pain my brain was feeling at that point.): Kid wants to brush his teeth himself, Mom squirts toothpaste on his little toddler toothbrush and tells him to go to town. Kid takes one look at the toothbrush, looks at Mom standing nearby, I'm guessing he assumes mom is maybe, sort of, I don't know, POSSIBLY considering thwarting his plans to do it himself, thus kid launches into a twenty minute scream session about how he wants to "do it MYSEFFFFF!"...........WHILE HE IS DOING IT HIMSELF. He was brushing his own teeth while screaming these words. In fact, he had to physically remove the toothbrush from his own mouth so he could scream some more about doing it himself. Say what? I was standing there, blinking incredulously at this creature, this being that I birthed, that apparently lacks all common sense and reasoning abilities. I mean, what do you say to that? What I said was, "Ummm, Charlie? You ARE doing it yourself, dude." This enraged him more. He is now not even bothering to take the toothbrush out of his mouth before he wails about doing it himself. Tears are making his pajamas sopping wet, snot is running down his chin from crying so hard. Goddammit. I did the only thing I could do: pinned him down, brushed his little teeth myself, and put him to bed immediately. See, they trick you into thinking that there is a possibility of using logic with them. Like maybe when I told him that he was, in fact, currently brushing his own damn teeth, he would look at his hand holding the toothbrush, look at me, promptly stop screaming, and apologize to me. "I'm sorry, mom, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I didn't realize I was brushing my own teeth! Wow! I apologize profusely." No, there is no logic and reason. There is only Plan B: ESCAPE.

So there it is. A day's worth of life-altering, earth-shattering horribleness in the world of Charlie. If you are past the Terrible Twos then I commend you for escaping with your sanity intact. If you have not experienced them yet, then you have my utmost pity and a pat on the back. Actually, scratch that. You have my utmost pity, and a wish that you have access to an unlimited supply of vodka.

Five Things.

We have officially reached the weeks of the year that, in my opinion, should be marked through on the calendar with a big red X: January and February. They serve no purpose other than to make you slowly lose your mind from the sheer proximity of your children. There is no shooing the kids outside to play for an hour. There are no long mornings at the park that simultaneously keep the kids busy and wear them the hell out, promising a blissful three hour nap for everyone in the house. No, there are just two kids, every morning, staring at me like I am the Gatekeeper Of The Fun, asking "What now, Mama?". The newness of the Christmas toys has worn off a bit, so the eager willingness to sit for hours on end exploring their stacks of loot has given way to "I don't have ANYthing to play with! All of my stuff is BORING!". You would think that this would be an excellent time of year for getting new things posted to one's blog. You would be wrong. After thirteen straight hours of bickering and picky eaters and oh my GOD, if you scowl at me one more time I am going to smack your face, I am left at the end of each day not only exhausted, but somewhat incapable of even remembering my own name and age, let alone how to turn the computer on.


"I want YOUR SOUL. Also, play Thomas The Train with me again. NOW."


In the interest of having something on this blog that has been written in the last two weeks, I give you a list (coughcough *cop out* cough). Lazy blogging for the win! Five things that have made me happy in the new year. Go.

1. Warm January Days: Say Whhaaat?

Yes, in the south we have the odd warm-ish day here and there. While still chilly, it is not face-numbingly cold enough that my girl and I cannot go outside for an hour and blow bubbles.








2. The Best Christmas Gift EVER.

My mom got me this for Christmas. I am in love with it, and plan to cover my entire side of the bathroom in this woman's art. Erinsmithart.com to get your own smart-ass wall art of awesomeness.



3. New songs on my running playlist.



This one? Is basically trying to shine a happy, smiley light on a shitty thing: I have to run on the treadmill. The days are just too short to fit in an outside run during daylight hours, and so I trek to the gym five days a week to run like a hamster on its wheel. But! This is made slightly more bearable by having spruced up my running playlist on my ipod. Nothing like hearing new songs to get you through a crappy run on a crappy treadmill next to a stupid woman doing arm yoga while powerwalking and a guy who apparently thinks the recommended application method for his can of Axe body spray is "Spray whole can all over self. Repeat with second can if needed. Maybe also a third." Also too? Keeps me distracted from the New Year's Resolutioners who can't even figure out how to turn the treadmill ON.

4. Best friends.



These two really do love each other, and seeing this huuuuge dog snuggling a tiny, wee little pup makes me giggle.

5. Dysfunctional Family Dynamics.



I am far enough removed from almost 99% of my family's drama to make the holidays highly, stupendously enjoyable and entertaining for me. Who is going to get mad at who for maybe suggesting that someone's hair needs a style change? Who will be just drunk enough that they will say something inappropriate and/or something that was meant to be kept a secret? (Answer: EVERYONE.) While I still hate living here, there is something nice about visiting my family, catching up with everyone, and offering a friendly, "See y'all later!" and hightailing it back home.


So, Happy 2011! Here's to not losing your everloving mind before spring decides to show up.