The One In Which Everyone Know's It's....

' Windy'

I've been busy lately.  I know everyone says that ...but these past two or three weeks , for me?  I have been running around like the proverbial chicken with my head cut off.  And that's on a good day. 

It is Spring here on the left coast.  And Spring means greenery and warmer weather.  And wind.  And that means my girls have to mainline the Zyrtec ...We are the proverbial booger factory around here.  And the dry skin...oh the armadillo skin!  (We are not a supple people, folks- probably from years of our ancestors walking in the dessert.)

And Spring means warmer weather and that means...shorts!  I can't remember the last time I went shorts shopping.   I am more of a skort girl.  Or a coulotte.  Whatever happened to the coulotte anyway?  There was never a time when I would sport a pair of 'daisy dukes', but nowadays - I'd love to find a stylish pair of coulottes that would hide the junk in my trunk but still let my pasty white legs catch a breath.  I remember when I was a girl, they were like shorts with a flap that looked like a skirt.  Then came the gaucho in the 80's.  At this point - I am considering going full-on burka.  Modesty is not the issue.  Humiliation is.  Tu-Tu's are in for little girls this year.  Hmmmmm, how'd I look sporting one of those?

And Spring means longer daylight hours which means the cherubs get to bed a little later.  The little one says major-league adorable stuff like "I can't sleep in the daytime".  And then she sneaks out of her room for one more kiss (a nightly occurrence around here which has prompted the return of the 'ole bell on the doorknob trick so she doesn't scare the beejeezus out me when she creeps up on me at the computer or the liquor cabinet) and says wildly adorable shit like "I can't find a comfortable place to sleep.  It feels like my waist doesn't belong to my tushy"  - I have to flip her pillow over  which causes the treasure trove of crap that she puts under her pillow to fall between the bed and the wall which means I need to contort myself like a Le Cirque-us clown to retrieve the capless Sharpie, plastic coins, tinkerbell shoes,  and various and sundry flotsam and jetsam that she stores under there from being swallowed up by the Leprauchan that lives under her bed.  Botton line is that puts me behind on my American I-dull or Real Harpies of New York Shitty and that makes mommy stabbier than usual.

And if chronic tired isn't enough...it seems like every time I turn around  - there's another play, or PTA event, or meeting, or orientation , or softball practice, or game day or selling Daisy's Girl Scout Cookies (read: pimping my daughter out and teaching her how to say "Do-Si- Don't you wanna buy some Thin Mints?) or whatever.  I am the ulitmate in Mom-Taxi.  I need to put a meter on my 'dash' and start making some money at this job. 

And Spring means it's time for an invitation.  An invitation to a pity party. I really need a vacation.  Alone.  No offense to the Hubby - but I am really need a day or twelve two with no time frames to live by.  A few hours a day just doesn't seem to cut it because it's bounded by when I have to do this or that.  Alone time - where I don't have to drive, or pick-up, or prepare, or pretend, or talk or smile.  And when I am done playing the world's smallest violin at my pity party - I'll put my big girl coulotte's back on and start all over again.  (If you'd like, you can come  to come to my pity party.  Admission is one large bottle of Grey Goose, and something from the 'tos food group : chee, fri, dori or pota please and if you have pharmaceuticals, you get to pick your spot on the couch)

So I'll leave you with a little game - a sort of Caption This, if you will.

This has been making the rounds and it frickin' cracks me up!  And I need to laugh or else I will explode over this whole debacle about health care reform.  I voted for the guy - as the evil of two lessers. But don't get me started on that...it's not cocktail hour yet.

  You know what they say. "Once Barack, never back!"

An Open Letter to the Maker of Her Ruby Slippers

Dear Ruby Slippers;
Today marked the end of an era.  I know, I know - as much as you'd rather be slipped on the precious tootsies of my little one, your days were  numbered.  You've served us well, dear Ruby Slippers.  But my little one just can't have your broken -strapped , scraped - glitter, sand-filled , leather-soled goodness anymore.   Sadly, you are relegated to the land-fill of Ick after years of frolicking in the land of Oz.

She clicked your heels three times and repeated the lines "I want to go home" over and over again, but you remained tattered and tired. 

Gone are the days of innocence when mommy could just walk into Target and get another pair of you. And just so you know - you folks at Target ...they are RUBY slippers and are meant to be festooned with (if not actual rubies or)  red sequins and have real heels that make that clicky sound when you walk down the Yellow Brick Road of life.  NOT the cheezy pink glitter ballet flats with stapled elastic straps that make squishy air sounds as you run towards the combo Starbucks-Pizza Hut in the front of the super-store that you guys are trying to pass off as the real thing.  If you need a copy of the movie, go to aisle 16 and you'll find it.   Just sayin'.

She's crushed, but she'll muddle through.  I don't know about mom, though.

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