Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

I don't know if you're a blogger virgin, one that's been around the block a few times, or somewhere in between. I will tell you that if you're looking for another blog to add to your repertoire, you can't go wrong with Jen of "People I Want To Punch In The Throat". (She affectionately shortens it to its acronym: PIWTPITT)

Most people have celebrity "crushes"; people that they will admit to liking a whole lot. It's not sexual, it's just love. (And not at all creepy!) I have a blogger crush on Jen. She's like my idol of the blogging community. She brings sarcasm, sass, and swagger with effortless grace. She gets hate comments for cripes sake. You have to be talented to get people to read your writings just to leave nasty feedback. (Although please don't leave me nasty feedback. I don't need to be that talented. Maybe just a grumpy emoticon or something.)

Are you wondering where I'm going with this? This week I got to "meet" my celeb-bloggy crush. Live and in, um, email. Okay, let me back up a little.

Because Jen's cool like that, she hangs with other cool mom bloggers. (It's an exclusive club for bitchy, hipster Moms with mad writing skills, yo!) She wrote a review for a couple of her fellow blogger's books and decided to give copies to one of her readers. To enter the contest, you had to leave a comment about why having humor in parenting is important. Okay, I can do that. Comment. Submit. Done.

Since my memory span consists of about 49 minutes lately, I forgot all about the contest. I'm reading her latest post on Sunday and she announces the winner of the contest. And I get to the name and HOLY CRAP. It's me! I actually looked around the room for a minute just to make sure there wasn't some prank show waiting to ambush me. Nope, still my name there! I fricken won! After she announces the winner (Did I mention it was me?!) she asks that they contact her to receive the prize.

Okay, okay, I might hyperventilate if I don't calm down. I get to contact me celeb-bloggy crush? She's going to read something I write to her? From my computer to hers? Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Breathe. In and out. Okay.

Have you ever tried to say something witty and cool and, at the time, it sounds fine. Until you look back at it and cringe and think, "That's what I said? I'm such a dweeb!" Well, that's pretty much what happened. Being the ultra cool celebrity that she is, she didn't even call me out on my ultra geekiness. (Wow! She's super classy too!) It was a little reminiscent of high school and stammering in front of the cool kids. I kind of wanted to kneel and say, "I'm not worthy your blogginess!"

But I'm probably still never washing these eyes that got to see the response from Jen from PIWTPITT ever again!

When Good Ideas Go Bad

A few months ago there was a "Craft It Forward" Project making the rounds on Facebook. The premise was that you signed up to receive a handcrafted item from someone and you continued the chain, offering to send a handcrafted item to whoever signed up for your unique crap. (They capped it at 5 thankfully.) Simple, right?

Maybe it was the fact that it was still winter, there was still snow on the ground, and I was getting a little case of "I wish it were summer-itis", but I thought, "Why not? I can be crafty somehow. I have been in the past." What sealed the deal was that it could be anytime over the next year that they could receive it. I had a whole year to whip up something crafty? I could do that! I'm in! Oh, the crap that I get myself into.

What I failed to realize is that most of my crafts are children based. Yes, they might be happy to slap some beads on a string and call it a necklace, but I'm not sure a grown woman can get away with calling this a craft! I can't crochet, knit, or quilt. I don't have any handy hidden craft talents like decoupage or macrame. Hmmm, this might be harder than I thought. Sure, I once stenciled a coat rack and a kitchen apron but neither are worthy of being featured in Martha Stewart Living. Crap! The things I get myself into.

So two and a half months go by and this proposal is simmering in the back of my mind. I'm still keeping an eye out for craft projects for dummies but mostly I'm wondering why the hell I thought I could do this. Not only am I not crafty, but when do I have time for this? What was I thinking, that I could create hours in my day to find time to do this? Am I going to clone myself since I keep adding things to do in my not so spare time?

Thankfully I see an article in a magazine that talks about craft tape and how it's an inexpensive way to make things new and/or pretty. They showed a box and a picture frame. It looks like something a craft novice can do. I think I heard the Hallelujah chorus.

So Friday night my step-mother, my daughter and I went to the "big" craft store. This is A.C. Moore. If you have ever been there, or to a craft store period, you know that it pretty much has everything a crafter could want: beads, paint, yarn, picture frames, wood projects, baking supplies, kids crafts, t-shirts and fabric paint, jewelry making supplies, and so on. I walked in and figured if I can't find a project to do here, then no one can. Actually, these stores are dangerous. They make you think you ARE capable of all these craft projects and more. You feel like Supercraft Woman! Able to create decorative, high quality art out of string, a toothpick, and glitter glue!

After walking around for an hour and a half and doing laps around the store, we finally did walk out as they were closing. Hopefully, I've learned my lesson about signing myself up for extra activities until my schedule lightens up a little. What? They need 6 dozen cookies for the PTA bake sale? Okay, sign me up.....

Mother's Day Mania

May begins next week. Can you believe it? You and I have been together, blogger and reader, for three months now. It seems like just yesterday we met.....

May is also Mother's Day. Now, being a mother myself, I'm in favor of a holiday that celebrates all the hard work that being a mother entails. (Hold your horses guys, I'm a fan of Father's Day for the same reason.) The problem I have is that I have no idea what I'm supposed to get for gifts for my own mothers. (Yes, that was plural. Mother, step mother, and mother-in-law.) Seriously. What can I give them that can even come close to telling them that I wouldn't have become the person I am today without them or that I'm grateful they raised their son to be respectful of women? How can I tell them that I appreciate being taught how to bake or sew on buttons or find humor in life?

So I want a meaningful gift, but I also want one that's useful as well. (How many "Greatest Mom" coffee mugs can one woman own?) But it has to be meaningful and useful, and hopefully, whimsical or part of an inside joke so that your gift says, "I put thought into this because you're my mother and you're worth it."

It was so much easier when you were in elementary school because you could slap your hands in paint, plop them on construction paper, and glue a sappy mom poem on it and you had the greatest gift in the universe. What mom can resist a hand made gift from their precious little grade schoolers?

And if you make the mistake of asking your mom what she wants, they all say the same thing: "Nothing." Yes, because what I really want to do is tell the world that I thought so little of my parentage that I wasn't even willing to put a modicum of thought into what I could do to let her know that she's appreciated. (Sadly, they probably don't want anything because nothing will ever measure up to the second grade hand print poem anyway.) But us children feel guilty and scour the stores to find something heartfelt and touching.

Once you have kids, these special grandchildren as your Mom calls them, can be a great tool for the presentation, if not the actual contents, of the gift. Now the mug says, "World's Greatest Grandma" and has all their names on it. Or a picture book with photos of all their precious faces. Who can say no to those sweet baby cheeks? But there's only so many frames and books and pictures you can throw at them until they're forced to gently tell you, "Oh, we have plenty of pictures dear."

Now what? Flowers are pretty but they eventually die. Gift cards seem impersonal. Candy seems like I had no other ideas and went for the easy sell. Think, think, think. Yep, and that right there is my problem. I can't think. I don't have time to think, unless it's thinking of 3 or 4 things simultaneously. What little brain I used to have to think up witty, personal and charming gifts is now the mental equivalent of the treadmill that was once utilized but now holds all your junk that doesn't have a permanent home. All the good ideas are buried under mental sticky notes reminding me to pick up milk, buy AP study guides, find out price of tickets for the middle school dance, ask the husband what time the t-ball game is again......how can I compete with my brainier and younger self?

So every year I bumble through the Mother's Day gift buying process and she smiles and tells me she loves it. I figure she's teaching me how to be graceful when, someday, I'm the one smiling and raving over my own children's tired, last minute gift offerings.

What's the 411 Boston?

Okay, I'm pretty sure I'm about to alienate and/or piss some people off. But is anyone else out there tired of hearing about the Boston Marathon bombing? Actually, let me rephrase that. Is there anyone out there tired of hearing about the Boston bombing that will own up to it?

I know, I know. It was a terrible tragedy. I'm not arguing that. The image of that poor 8 year old boy who was a victim of these sick twisted morons will forever be seared into my brain. I hope there's a special corner of hell for the psychotic bastards who hurt children in any way. May they spend the rest of eternity with hot pokers shoved under their fingernails and have hourly enemas of boiling oil. But don't you think, now that the perpetrators are caught, that maybe, just maybe, we can let those poor families grieve in peace? Do we need daily updates and hourly newscasts re-hashing it over and over again?

Admittedly, I was pretty sick of all the news coverage before it even ended. Did anyone ever think that it took so long to find the other guy because he was watching the news? The news, where every single move about what was being done and what progress was being made and what facts were known were being broadcast to everyone with a television set?

Unless you live under a rock, you know what happened in Boston. For a few days I could have an intelligent conversation about a current event, albeit a gruesome one. But after a few days, the media frenzy just gets old fast. This new age of information has, well, too much information. (Literally as I'm writing this a promo for Wednesday's Dateline came on: Inside the Boston manhunt.) Not only do we have radio and television but now there's the internet, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Basically we cannot unplug ourselves. Great for keeping in touch with family. Not so great if you're trying to get a reprieve from the onslaught of detail overload.

I can't help but feel like the newshounds grasp on to these awful events and wring out every single drop of terror, horror, and tragedy. The more atrocious the event, the happier they are. "Hallelujah Jim, there's been an innocent child killed in a bombing! Think of how well we can lather the American people up with this one!" And then they proceed to show us ad nauseum, until we're ready to hunt down the SOB just to shut the damned newscasters up. (Just saw yet another news promo for "Boston: 1 week later".)

For now, we're stuck being deluged with the aftermath of the Boston Marathon. (Injected with as much sarcasm as a single sentiment can take:) Surely they haven't interviewed the third grade teacher of the eyewitness who lead officials to the culprits, right? Still so much untapped news potential!

He Thinks My Veins Are Sexy

Three times a year the people who are in charge of "things" at my place of employment invite the local branch vampires in to have at us poor, overworked schleps. By vampires I mean the Red Cross. There's a blood drive down the hall from my office in April, July, and October. Friday was the April blood drive.

Now, this is bandwagon was only jumped upon recently since it contains two things I tend to avoid at all costs: needles and blood. There's also the point that I'm kind of still using this blood, thank you very much. And did I mention the needles part?

I still don't remember what prompted me to donate the first time. Maybe I was trying to prove something to myself. Maybe I was in it for the certificate they handed out for a half gallon of Friendly's ice cream to every successful donation. (That does sound a lot like something I would do.)

Have you ever given blood? Let me walk you through the process. First they quiz you to make sure you know who you are. Name, date of birth, address and what not. Then they prick your finger to make sure you aren't anemic. (I think I dread this more than the blood sacrifice part.) The also take your blood pressure and pulse. Lastly, they do the interview to see if you're a candidate. They are most especially concerned if you've been out of the country, are on drugs for certain medical conditions (or on drugs period), and if you're a hooker. (I kid you not, one of the questions is if you've had sex for money.) Once they have put you through your paces and determined that your blood is worthy, they take you over to the folding cots and get you set up.

Now, being the nice vampires that they are, they ask if you have an arm that's better for this process. I immediately wave my left arm and say, "This is the good bleeding arm." (They appreciate good bleeders.) They whip out the tourniquet and wrap it around your arm while giving you a stress ball to squeeze. (I guess this attracts your veins.) The blood drive guy immediately says, "There is it. That's a beautiful vein." Ok, I know it's probably foolish, but how thrilled am I to have a beautiful anything? Yeah, so it's a vein. It's nice to know that someone appreciates it, right? My husband gives me pretty compliments all the time, but he's never once told me how beautiful my veins are!

At the end they send you off with a drink, a snack, and an order not to do anything strenuous for the rest of the day. This includes housework and laundry, right?

Strike Three, New Batter!

Well, it's that time of year again. Yes, you guessed it, baseball season. (Did anyone else just have a Daffy Duck/Bugs Bunny flashback right there? Duck season! Rabbit season! No? Showing my age? Alrighty then.)

Baseball season usually haunts me in the form of ceaseless games on ESPN in the living room every night. Yes, being married to a jock means I have an obsessed husband with an encyclopedia of sports statistics for a brain. He probably can't tell you the difference between an IRA and a 401K, but he can tell you who won the world series in 1971. (Keep in mind, this would be before he was born.)

Yes, I know that baseball is the all American past time but, ugh, I just can't get into it. Ok, you guys run around bases trying to collect points, all the while staying away from the big bad man with the ball. Here, take this little stick and try to whack this projectile that's hurtling towards you at 90 miles per hour! But, if there's no running or whacking, sit in this underground cell like you're being punished for something. And it's the letters thing: RBI, HR, MVP, AB, GIDP, 3B......who can keep up with all these abbreviations? (Other than Captain Encyclopedia.)

As if the constant barrage of ESPN baseball wasn't bad enough, baby boy's starting his first year of t-ball. T-ball is the preschool of baseball. It's for beginners, teaching them the basics. It's also not for the faint of heart. Because these kids are 5 and 6 years old. They have the attention span of a gnat, and these coaches put them in left field for the 20 minutes it takes to run through the other team's batting order. That's if you're lucky and don't have thumbs McGee on your team taking 16 tries to hit the ball off the tee. But, I'm the MOM. I have to be supportive and say things like, "Oh honey, of course I can't wait to come to your game!" instead of, "Of course I'll come to your game if there's wine and Prozac."

So, you go sit through the games in April wearing winter coats, rain jackets, and 3 pairs of socks. By June, you're sweating, sunburned, and bug bitten. It doesn't even gradually transition you. One game it's snowing, the next you're in a tank top. Damn fickle weather.

Maybe I'm just not into sports because I myself have 2 left feet and the coordination of a six foot three 12 year old with arms swinging wildly about, knocking his head off low lying light fixtures. Or maybe I'm crazy. I guess it could be worse though. Baseball may not be as cool and exciting as football, but it's not as bad as watching golf either!

The Best Worst Kid Products

If you thought that terrible products were only for grown ups, think again! I recently came across an article titled "13 Bizarre Baby and Kids Products You Won't Believe Exist".
(http://moms.popsugar.com/13-Bizarre-Baby-Kid-Products-28444561?image_nid=28444561)
Do you know why you won't believe they exist? Because after you get over the fact that someone was stupid enough to conceptualize this product, you now have to swallow that someone actually put it into production. What retail gems are they making for your little bundle of joy? How about:

The potty ride on toy.  Yes, because potty training with a stationary potty seat just wasn't challenging enough. We need to give the kid a moving target. And what parent wouldn't want a toy that collects shit....literally?

Baby bangs. Is your five month old embarrassed to go to play dates because of that giant bald cranium she's sporting? Never again suffer the humiliation of being the baldest baby at the ball with baby bangs....the wigs made just for babies!

The Baby Snuggle. If you're a fan of the movie "Alien", then this product is for you. Part baby harness, part Snuggie, this innovative product is one slip away from total infant suffocation. As an added bonus, baby looks like she's an alien about to burst forth from your body!

Poop and T.P. Plush Toys. Do you feel that your child's plush toy collection is lackluster? Why not add this adorable toy poop and toilet paper to his cache? Because every parent wants their child to learn that those two things are fun things to play with, am I right?

Placenta Teddy Bear. Can you think of anything cuddlier than a woman's placenta that's been dried, cured, and sewn into this creepy version of a teddy bear? Apparently this company couldn't. I'm pretty sure the slogan for this product could be "Scarring emotionally healthy children everywhere."

The Breastfeeding Doll. Okay, I get that this could be deemed "educational". But I deem it creepy.  I'm not even completely sure who this doll's target market is. Teens sold into the slavery with the sole purpose of birthing heirs to third world country drug lords?

Baby Perfume. Perfect for those babies who constantly smell like formula and Desitin. Hide those unseemly infant odors with baby perfume. (And silly old me thought baby perfume was Johnson and Johnson's applied after a bath!)

The Birthing Doll. Do you want to graphically portray the birthing process to your baby/toddler/husband? For a low $200, you can have this hand stitched model. (This is disturbing on so many levels.)

Potty Training Dolls. Yes, we needed more ways to ensure that our toddler would find the bathroom process hilarious and interesting. While we're at it, let's give a round of applause for the idiot who designed a toy with the sole function of making a mess.

The Toddler Helmet. Now there's a way to indulge your insane paranoia as well as make your baby the laughingstock of daycare. Lets's face it folks, unless you're playing a sport, wearing a helmet in public isn't a sign of a good thing. This is bringing baby proofing to a whole new, and slightly disconcerting, level.

The Time Out Pad. As a society, I guess we ran out of things to make electronic so we started making things up. Or is society deciding that time outs are too harsh on our child's psyche now too? I'm not sure what the thought behind this was, but if it turns "time outs" into a game then I think we missed the mark people.

The Pee Pee Teepee. I need this one explained to me. No, I'm serious. I just don't get it.

The Zaky Infant Pillow. I'm not sure if this is a pair of hands connected together or just two large brown, stuffed hands. Either way it's uber creepy. I'm not sure what this is supposed to solve. Your baby's wild roly poly ways? His unwavering belief that muppets exist?

All these bad ideas are exhausting. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a nap. Now where did I put my Placentabear?

Can someone please explain these?

The Meatball Magician

I may be a modern thirty something woman living in 2013, but there are some things that bring out my inner 1950's housewife. (Complete with the dress that had a pristine white apron. I'm not sure how they kept them so white after cooking and cleaning all day. The probably washed them 3 times a day from sheer boredom. But I digress.) Sunday dinners are one of those things.

I love Sunday dinner. Granted, I'd probably love them more if I wasn't the one that had to cook them. That wouldn't be very Donna Reed of me though. There's just something about having a nice, family meal to end your week. Sitting down with the people you love and basically saying, "Enjoy it because tomorrow's Monday and we all know that just sucks." Luckily for me, Sunday dinners aren't seasonal. Summers we barbecue and colder weather has all the comfort foods (those are the ones that all the magazines tell you not to eat because they're bad for you).

Now, I like summer Sunday dinners because I can usually coerce the husband to do his manly grilling thing, thus removing half of my cooking duties. But I love the comfort food dinners because, well, who doesn't like comfort? That and they make me feel like a super hero.

If you're wondering how a dinner could possibly turn me from blah, regular old mom into Ta-Da! Super Mom, let me explain. It starts with pasta. Not the better for you whole wheat kind, but the white carb loaded kind. (I can use the excuse that I have growing kids to feed, right?) Add some sauce, some Parmesan cheese and then the finishing touch: the Magic Meatball. I don't know why it's magic, but it is. Every time I make meatballs, my family treats them like they are the finest delicacy they have ever had the pleasure to consume. Not that I don't think it's a good meatball. I just never realized it was that good. I'm not complaining mind you. If there's a meal that my family worships and makes me feel like Queen of the World over, I'd rather it be a fairly simple recipe. Think of how much I could impress them with a meal I spent twice as much time on. They might nominate me for mother and wife of the year. I'd get an award and a spa certificate.  I'd buy a new dress. I'd get my hair done. I'd give a speech. It's about time I get some culinary recognition!

The other magical part of spaghetti and meatballs? If you make a big enough batch the first night, you can disguise it as goulash the second night. It's the dinner jackpot. All the dinner of two meals with half the cooking.

Wow. Those meatballs must be magic.

Baby Boy Has a Sleepover

My youngest child has always been the one who needs the most. The most time, the most attention, the most cuddles. Maybe it's just him, maybe its because he's the "baby" of the family, I'm not really sure.

His latest phase has been to have "sleepovers" with his siblings. Mostly his sister because she's closer to his age than his brother is. This entails some sort of sleeping apparatus being arranged. I have 3 options for this:

1. Give him a pile of blankets and let him sleep on the floor. This would be the easiest option, but I just can't do it. I feel like I'm some sort of child abusing, neglectful mom who makes her kid sleep on the hard ground and gives crusts of bread and glasses of water for sustenance. And then, if I did get over it and let him make a nest on the floor, I'd have guilt the whole night that he wasn't comfortable enough or that it's colder on the floor than on a bed, even if said bed was only 6 inches off the floor, heat rises so it would be warmer, don't you think? Needless to say, we usually don't go this route.

2. Put the air mattress in the room. We have done this quite a few times. It's a pain in the ass. Remember, there's not a lot of space in my house. So I have to move things around in the closet to finagle getting the air mattress out. Then I have to have my daughter clear a spot in her room to put the mattress. Her room isn't that big with all her crap in it, so trying to fit a queen size inflatable mattress is like trying to squeeze a poodle (the full size ones, not those puny runts) in a cat carrier. Once we get all of that done, Dad hauls out the air compressor (We used to have a hand air pump!?! This mattress prompted an upgrade.) and fills the mattress. Phew! Done! Until the next day when we have to let all the air out, flatten it as best as we can, and fold it as small as possible. Then I get to navigate the closet of horrors again and wedge it back into a space that's at least 1/2 as big as I need it to be for this thing.

3. Use baby boy's twin mattress. This is also a pain, although not as bad as option 2. We have to take all the blankets and pillows off the bed so that we can move the mattress  Then we haul it into the daughter's room and plunk it down on the carpet that is supposed to be vacuumed twice a week and probably hasn't been done in the last 2 months since I last nagged her (or broke down and vacuumed it myself) and has more dog hair than even the dog currently has. This of course means that the next day, when I put his bed back, I have to wash the sheets and blankets, thus creating more laundry than I need to have just because baby boy doesn't like to sleep alone. (He would have mad a fantastic twin brother.)

And you know he only asks for "sleepovers" at 8 at night when Daddy and I are relaxing after a full week of being responsible, bread winning parents. Which means we heave a sigh, haul our asses out of our respective chairs, and grab bedding. On the upside, these sleepovers don't come with strange children that I don't know. (They come with strange children I do know!)

The Leaning Tower of Sweaters

It happened again. The closets are bursting at the seams, begging for someone to come clean them out and leave only seasonally appropriate clothing behind. Unfortunately, that someone turns out to be me. Yee haw.

This isn't my real closet. I'm emphasizing my point with someone else's awful clutter.

Don't get me wrong. I'm always really happy to have the seasons change to warmer weather. But you have to walk before you can crawl. Spring might end with really lovely weather but it starts out cold and crappy. This means I have to check the weather every night to see what's happening the next day. And spring is a fickle beast, so you HAVE to check daily. I feel like I'm gambling! Should I take a sweater? Should I wear open toed shoes? There's so much margin for error!

What this means is that I have a 50/50 chance of having comfortable outfits picked out. If it's going to be 60 and sunny, I can get away with a short sleeve shirt, but 60 and rainy will be damp so I should bring a sweater. If it warms up and I'm wearing socks and shoes, I'm going to feel overheated but if it doesn't warm up, open toed shoes are going to make my feet feel like Popsicles.

The worst thing about the in between season is that your closets aren't quite ready to be changed over. I can finally put the turtlenecks away, but not the pants. I can pack up the heaviest sweaters, but I'll need to keep the light weight sweaters on hand. So my closet has half winter, half summer clothing and is confused as all hell. I get the awesome task of standing in front of it every night being dissatisfied with my clothing choices and knowing that there's a big chance I'm either going to be too warm or too cold if I choose incorrectly. I want the weather to catch up already and stop making me play the in between game.

As if having this closet quandary wasn't bad enough, multiply it by 5. There are 4 people in out house who have clothes scattered willy nilly in their closets and 5 with cramped dresser drawers. Thinking about cleaning out my own clothes isn't bad but when I think about having to do it 3 more times (Hubby's on his own) it gets downright overwhelming. I'm having nightmares about being chased by piles of outgrown clothes and being run over by shoes that are sizes too small. Because once you start cleaning out the closets, you find stuff that doesn't fit anymore. So you make a pile. And then another. And then before you know it, you have 4 garbage bags full of crap that you have to haul out to goodwill. (A.K.A. Putting the bags in the trunk for 3 months until they bug me enough to actually get them to goodwill.)

So right now, I'm stuck waiting for Mother Nature to get her act together. Which gives me a good excuse not to do any spring cleaning and hunker down with a good book instead. (Like I needed that much encouragement?!)

Lotto House would have closets like this in every bedroom.

I Have PVSD

This week I have a case of PVSD (Post Vacation Stress Disorder). Every year we are counting down that last day in the car, excited to see our long lost home. But I forgot that the vacation aftermath just makes me tired.

Please children, ask another 43 times. It might make Mommy and Daddy drive faster.

It starts out with the the small things: Turning the heat back up and going through a week's worth of mail. You might not think that you get a lot of mail in one week, but stack it up and it looks like we hit the postal service jackpot. I sorted it into two piles: Hubby will deal with it and I'll deal with it. (Mine's still in its original pile on my desk. Shh, don't tell anyone.)

After that you start tackling the big things: Unpacking five people's worth of luggage, throwing in the first of many loads of  laundry, vacuuming out 3 kids worth of crumbs in the backseat of your car. I must have been so happy to get home that I was willing to do laps in order to put everything away. Or maybe it was the "I didn't exercise on vacation" guilt that prompted me to run around like a mad woman. Either way I was making up for lost time with my house.

Then the huge projects: Downloading all the pictures you took and going through 10 days of email. I don't know how I ended up subscribed to some of these email newsletters but some of them remind me of that annoying friend you had in school. The one that would write you 12 notes a day and call you 3, 4, or 5 times a night. I have companies who email me incessantly and I want to say, "I get it, you're having a sale. Enough." I had 770 emails. My finger was in jeopardy of getting "clicker-itis" from deleting so many times. Because that's the sad part. I kept a total of 7 and deleted the rest. We live in a spammy world!

But it doesn't end there. The first day back to work after vacation is always like trying to run uphill in molasses. In the winter. Naked. For every voice mail and issue you clear up, two more take their place. And even though you've been on vacation, no one else has. So when they come in and need you to do something for them, they can't figure out why you won't drop everything right then.

I know that life will smooth out again and everything will go back to its hunky dory status. In the meantime, I'll stock up on chocolate and romance novels. That's the prescription I use to cure PVSD.

Parting....Sweet Sorrow or Just Plain Sorrow?

I'm always torn on the last day of vacation between spending every waking second soaking up last minute rays and spending it gathering up all our crap that has been spread out over the last week. I like to be organized. And it's not like we're going to drive 1,200 miles if someone forgets something. But it's also our last day of vacation until next year.

Granted, I'm a little excited to be going home; where needing a band aid doesn't turn into a catastrophe. (You try to plan for contingencies but short of packing the entire house, something is going to get forgotten.) And it'll be nice to have all my stuff back where it belongs. But here are some things about vacation that I'll miss:

TWO bathrooms. It's pretty sad when our vacation house has more bathrooms than our actual house.  And better showers. And did I mention two bathrooms? 

Not Cooking. Remember my lotto fantasy of having a cook? Vacation is the next best thing. No cooking for an entire week. I'm sure I'd probably miss it after about a month or two, but a week isn't long enough to get a case of the boo hoos over not cooking.

The sound of the ocean. Yeah, the ocean was pretty fricken cold this week, but the sound of it is mesmerizing. Next year I'm going to bring a tape recorder down and fill an entire tape with the sounds of the ocean and the crashing waves. Yes, I know they probably already sell cd's of this, but it wouldn't be our ocean so it just wouldn't be the same. 

Maid service. Having a nice woman come in every day to leave us clean towels and vacuum as well as clean our grody showers, well, it's pretty fantastic. Sure we have to leave the woman a tip every day and that could get quite expensive, but I think for cleaning our toilets (There are THREE boys in our household.) she deserves it. I only wish I could afford to take her home with us. 

Sunshine. I know we have sun in New York too, but it's different. Maybe because we're closer to the equator or something. Or something scientific from middle school that I should remember but I don't. Even in the middle of summer, our sun won't be as sunny and bright as it is here. Or is it just that we have more shade options up North? (Palm trees don't offer much in the way of shadiness.) 

Warmth. It's been lovely to have upper 70's and low 80's for temperatures  Now we get to trade those for mid 50's, low 60's if we're lucky. I hate to wish my life away but...I wish it was summer.

Although it's always sad to leave the lazy, hazy days of vacation behind, it's always nice to get back to the "real" world. Here are some things about vacation that I won't miss:

Beds that are too short. I love the place we stay at, but they have double beds. I hate when my feet are hanging off the edge of the bed. Unless I sleep sideways, I feel like Vince Vaughn in "Fred Claus".

Driving in the Carolinas. If you want to see a soccer mom with road rage, have her drive on the two lanes they consider the interstate in North and South Carolina. I was so mad that we did the accordion the entire time because some moron decided to cut in front of someone else in an effort to get ahead of the traffic thus causing the brake light chain a mile back. (Apparently there were multiple morons. I think they teach it in their student driving courses.)

Not cooking. I know this made my list of things I'll miss, but let me explain what a week of eating out does to the digestion of a thirty plus Mom. I won't go into the messy details but the end result is that I could buy stock in both Tums AND Rolaids after this past week. You know it's bad when I'm actually looking forward to cooking again. (Don't worry, it'll pass quickly.)

For now, I'll look forward to enjoying the rest of the year. And if I miss my sunny oasis too much, well, I took about 200 pictures. That ought to tide me over, right?

Fifty Shades of Bronze

Being on vacation at the beach is great for people watching. However, I have realized that my family and I have giant red arrows pointing to us with a sign underneath that reads: "Tourists here".

Okay, so the giant red arrows aren't really there. But the sign might as well be. Because we are WHITE. Not cream, not toasted marshmallow, but Casper white. We've-not-seen-the-sun-in-months-white. Being this white means you are a tourist because the locals have skin like Greek Gods. They are golden and svelte and the only white things on them are their teeth and their eyes. (Well, maybe their nether regions too, depending on their proclivities for nude bathing. I felt that asking someone for research purposes was really awkward and probably fell under the category of things a creepy stalker would ask.)

The only thing worse than being a really white tourist is being a really red tourist. This is basically saying, "Yes, I know I am white and will burn but I can't seem to figure out the SPF ratio and how often I should re-apply in order to keep myself from looking like a tomato." Either that or "I'm getting sun cancer in 20 years and I don't care." Neither are true, but nobody ever asks our opinion.

I think that the sunscreen itself probably labels us as tourists too. We've been here for 5 days now and not once have we seen anyone other than our fellow out of towners applying sunscreen. Perhaps this is why the locals are so colorful. They've stopped using sunscreen and their skin itself is now a protective barrier. It's adaptation to the constant barrage of sunny weather. The people are one small step away from becoming lizard people and having their own sci fi movie.

My husband, lucky SOB that he is, is probably the only one in our family who doesn't look like a Yank transplant. He has some sort of Italian/Indian/any other nationality that has lovely skin tone skin or something because he will burn for approximately 47 minutes before it turns to a lovely shade of tan. Rotten bastard. There are women who would kill to have this type of skin. In fact, he should probably be careful he's not hunted down for his pelt. (The Tanelope is being hunted to extinction.)

As for myself, I'll just have to be content with my candy cane skin. (I alternate between red and white.) And there's always the fact that I'll at least have more color than the people back home. Even if that color is red.

Chocolate Ooh La La

I was watching tv the other day (or rather listening since I was doing 12 other things at once, Mom style) and I saw a commercial for a company called Brookside Chocolate. Upon hearing the word chocolate, my head whipped around quicker than Linda Blair needing an exorcism.

It started out good. I heard the words rich, dark chocolate. Then things got a little weird. The ad proceeded to say something about soft and sweet centers made with exotic fruit juices. Ok, now, I'm not a huge fan of fruit and chocolate, but at this point I'm still willing to give it a shot. Then they list the flavors: Pomegranate, Goji with raspberry, and Acai with blueberry. I  couldn't even understand what they were saying when they said Goji. I had to Google the company to make sure they weren't saying goat cheese. And then I had to Google Goji to see what the heck it was. (Apparently some sort of Chinese berry.) Listen people, if my chocolate takes this much research, it's obviously too high maintenance for me. Plus, if I don't eat these exotic fruits in my everyday life, what makes you think I'm going to want them smothered in chocolate. Ok, so I'd probably at least suck the chocolate off because come on, rich dark chocolate and all that. But you get the point.

What was wrong with chocolate that we needed to fancy it up? In my world, fancy chocolate means you hold your pinkie out when you eat it. I'm kidding. Fancy chocolate is the kind that you don't have to steal from your kid's Easter basket or Halloween goodies. In my world, chocolate is divided into 3 categories: Hershey, Dove, and Godiva. Hershey is your "working Joe" chocolate for the regular people. Dove is for when the regular people need to delineate the difference between we're having chocolate just because and we're having chocolate for a special occasion. Godiva is rich people chocolate. If it doesn't fit into these three subsections, it's not worthy of consideration.

And yes, I get that the candy market is super competitive. I know that they are always looking for the next big thing. But after all their brainstorming, this was the best they came up with? Fruit chews made with unknown fruits covered with chocolate? If I was trying to come up with an awesome new candy, I'd make a list of ingredients that people know and like first. I'm not sure I'd go straight to the goji berry. Not only did they come up with these exotic fruits, but they have really odd combos. Did they have a taste testing of various fruits to decide what flavors complimented each other? Did they try banana and raspberry and it was just too plebeian? Did they think that acai was getting a bad rap because it's always in conjunction with colon cleanse and they wanted to show how versatile this fruit was?

I guess I'm too common for these highfalutin chocolates. I'd better stick to snitching Twix from the kid's Easter baskets. Oooh, a miniature milky way. Now that's how you make candy!