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Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Oh, I'm Sure I Can Find That...

I push my chair back and shakily come to my feet.
My eyes dart nervously about the room.
I clear my throat.

"Hi, I'm Cathy...and it's been 37 minutes and 18, no, 19 seconds since I've made a purchase online."

My dog, the only other living creature in the room sits up on the couch and gives me side eye.  And I think to myself, "Man, I've got a problem and I'm glad I was able to admit that to a room full of strangers!  It's like a weight has been lifted."

SoCo judges me, "I am dog.  And I can tell you, lady, that you are one french fry short of...Mmmm, I love french fries!"

And there it is, confirmed by my dog that I've officially crossed the line into a crazed online shopper.  It's not my fault, really.  I blame my kids.  Aaaaand my husband.  Taking them shopping was worse than having your eyes gouged out with rusty nails [ok, I IMAGINE it's worse than that].  So, I began with buying their clothes online.  No stores.  No whiny kids.  No anxiety.  #Winning.

It grew from there as I started price comparing and coupon coding.  It's gotten to the point where friends ask me to find things for them.  The seven times I interact with other humans a year, it's mainly to tell them that I was able to find this rare artifact [that they wished they found] for $5.00 after 17 hours of grueling and rampant surfing.

And I think I really realized the scope of my problem when I started searching for items, not because I wanted to purchase them; but moreover because I merely wanted to see if they existed.  And if indeed the unicorn was real, I had to ensure that I could find it available for purchase for 50% less than what it would or should be valued at.

Enter in my search for my own China set.  I mean, I don't NEED China.  In my cabinet sits a lovely antique set that belonged to my husband's paternal grandmother.  One day, it will belong to my son.  But...well...it doesn't really GO with my dining room.  So, I want a matchy-matchy set.  And I found a lovely set online that will ONLY cost me ABOUT $3,000.00  after I purchase all the pieces I would like to serve 16.  Challenge accepted.

Not that I expect to find the exact pattern.  Nooooo, no.  But something close.  And I'm not willing to pay more than $300.  That's firm.  I begin to scour online auctions and estate sales.  I watch the bidding.

I've even begun to involve others.

Me: Look at this!  It's amazing.  Aaaand the right price, but seriously, I can't find the rest of the pattern anywhere online.  It's like this China brand doesn't even exist.  And that's ridiculous.  How am I supposed to continue my life with the perfect set of China, if I can only find four teacups?!?
BFF: Are we really doing this?  Is this what's happening today?
Me: Oh, yes!  And every day until I find what I'm looking for at a price I'm willing to pay, including taxes and shipping...  Oooh, wow.  This set isn't me, but you might....
BFF: I totally just bid on that!  What are you doing to me?!?

I hang my head in shame.  It's terrible.  Well...it's terrible that is, until my husband comes home six days before Christmas and tells me that he hasn't purchased anything for his employees and has no idea what to do.

My eyes light up.  I crack my knuckles, and giggle.  "It's ok honey...I'm here for you.  You see, you have this problem with waiting until the last minute...It's a sickness, but I can help you find something..." 

Monday, December 11, 2017

Stop Humping The...Telephone?!?

So, saying, "Stop humping the telephone, Vern..." wasn't in my list of the top 10 things I might say during the course of my day today.  But, it was in fact, something I did say.  Oye!

See, my husband is kind of amazing.  And he likes to spoil me.  Enter Vern: my new robotic vacuum.  I *may* have mentioned that I wanted one.  Well, he thought to help eliminate some of my stress around the holidays and my compulsive need to vacuum every five hours or so, and thus - I became the proud owner of Vern, my automated vacuum.

I proudly plugged Vern in to charge last night and couldn't wait to unleash him this morning.  The directions say he'll vacuum for two hours for a total of about 2100 sq. ft.  Well...that's enough power to easily do my entire first floor!  Go Vern!  And because I'm mainly psychotic, I felt the need to follow him around for a large portion of my morning to discover what he would actually vacuum. 

Here is what I've discovered:

  1. My cat, also likes to follow Vern around, with a 100% judgmental look on her face
  2. My dog is unimpressed by Vern and refuses to get up, forcing Vern to vacuum around her
  3. Vern has now vacuumed under my dining room table seven times. [Jesus, it must be REALLY dirty under there...]
  4. Vern is a primadonna and refuses to brave the carpet lip into my living room and vacuum in there; yet - 
  5. Vern enjoys going baja'ing and flipping over my throw rugs in the kitchen
  6. Vern thinks charging cords are food and will stick around trying to eat them
  7. Vern especially enjoys driving up on...  "Goddamnitall, Vern!  Stop humping the telephone!"
Vern drove right up on the house phone and dock that is on the floor next to the couch in my family room.  I shouted at him [like he was one of my unruly children] and ran over to move him off of my freaking phone.  "Vern, what's wrong with you?  Stay off the telephone!" I admonished.  

At this point I walked away to do some other chore.  Five minutes later, I hear a weird grinding noise coming from the...oh, you guessed it!  Vern was back humping the phone again.  His little wheels moving him back & forth, up & down on top of the phone and docking station.  Oh.  My.  Gawd.

I picked him up once more and set him back down close by.  I now realize that he's not merely lonely, but has a phone fetish.  Best to nip this in the bud.  I pick up the phone and rest it and the dock on the arm of the couch.  There.  That'll fix you...

Having the root of temptation removed, Vern was free to go about his business and finish sucking up life's little messes.  And while Vern won't replace my vacuuming totally, he's good at alleviating my psychotic need to tidy up all the time.  But a word of advice should you get your own Vern...don't let him hump your phone.

Friday, December 1, 2017

I Do What I Want

Admit it, you've had that dream too.  You know the one.  The one where you answer only to yourself.  The one where "the Man" doesn't tell YOU what to do.  The one where you set your own hours and do your own thing: working for yourself.

I've had that dream as long as I can remember.  I wanted to open my own cookie shop.  I mean, I make cookies.  And they're damned delicious.  But I've had every excuse in the book: I don't have the money.  I need to do research.  I need to test out shipping.  I have shin splints.  Whatever the reason, I fed it to myself as a reason to not go out and do....until now.

And, granted, it's not cookies.  But it's mine just the same.  When I stepped away from the working world in October for personal ethical reasons; or as my husband likes to call it, "Whoa!  Didn't they know you don't like people to play in your sandbox?"  I was sitting at home with my dog and crocheting. 

I had this brilliant idea that I could make baby blankets.  And why not?  I'm good at it.  I'm creative.  I have time on my hands, and it'll be mine.  All mine.  And I'll call him George, Baby George.  Wait, no...that was Bugs Bunny.  Whew, I've been watching WAY too much TV while I do this.  Anywho, I figured, I could do what I love in between the moments of life that weren't taking my breath away and sell these little suckers on Etsy and hopefully make back enough money to keep me in yarn.

I conned my bestest into making me a logo.  I mean, what's the good in having an Illustrator for a best friend if you can't poach her services?  And that's what she did.  She made me a logo.  See?

Then I set about working.  I've got seven blankets to show for my time out of the "working world" and I've got two more in the works.  I'm working on their write ups, as I have a specific vision.  I'm not sure if it'll get me places or sales, but a girl can try.  I figure I'll do those smart-assed write ups that I was so good at when I ran a social committee for years and years.  And then maybe they're not just buying a boring old baby blanket, but a sassy side piece as well.

The point of all this is: I'm scared.  It's a smaller-ish scared though.  If I fail, I'll only be out about $200 start up capital, but I'm more afraid my pride will be crushed because it's oh-so hard to believe in yourself and follow through.  But yesterday, when the cards were on the table and I'd promised enough people and I had run out of excuses - no one was falling for that shin splint thing again - I did it.  I opened my first shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/CathyCreatesStuff

Check me out.  Pass me along.  Let me know if you're ever in need of a baby blanket, or if you want an afghan, we can work something out.  And maybe pray for me, or send good vibes out there...or whatever it is that you do - I'll take any kind - because I feel like I'm going to throw up.  I mean, I have nothing to lose; and my seat belt is buckled, my chair is in its full & upright position and my tray table is stored and locked.  I'm off!

Friday, November 24, 2017

...But The Foodies

SoCo.  SoCo, SoCo, SoCo...  I'm lucky in that I don't think there is anyone who doesn't love my dog.  She's pretty awesome, and obviously I'm a huge fan.  ...except when I'm trying to cook.  ...especially when I'm trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner.

This year I took over the longstanding Thanksgiving dinner tradition from my mom.  In an effort to make her transition more bearable, she came to "assist" me with all the cooking.  And so did SoCo.  Every time we moved, she was underfoot, in the way, laying where I needed to walk, sniffing at the counter.

Me: UGH!  SoCo, you gotta move!
SoCo: I.  Am.  Dog...and there is foodies.  I can have foodies?
Me: NO!  It's Thanksgiving.  It's not for you, and you're not allowed people food.
SoCo: ...but you drop the things on the floor.  And I eats them.  I can have foodies?
My Mom: SoCo, honey...I'm not going to drop anything on the floor.  Shooo!
SoCo: But Granny; you love me and I love the foodies.  I can have your foodies?
Mom: No!  I'm not gonna drop anything.
Me: Dog!  Go bark at squirrels or something.
SoCo: But the sniffies...
Mom: GET!

At this point, she huffs at my mother, and dejectedly walks two feet away and throws herself on the floor in the doorway to the family room, with her head facing us.

Dips are made, snack trays are laid out, stuffing is prepped, mixed and our group effort begins to shove it up this bird's ass.  In our attempts a few gobs fall on the floor.  That dog is up like a rocket and that stuffing was gobbled faster than a turkey...well...fast.  OK?

SoCo: I am dog and that was delicious.
Me: Thanks, now get out.
SoCo: But the foodies.  I must help you.  You don't want to step on that in your slippers.  Yuck.
Me: IT'S GONE, YOU ATE IT!
Mom: GET!

Again with the huffing and throwing on the floor.

Fast forward to turkey carving.  Now, there are four grown adults in the kitchen.  Countless people milling about.  My husband attempts to use two forkey things to flip the turkey over for his first carving in our new home.

Me & Mom in unison: NOOOOOOO!  It's falling apart!  DOOOOOOON'T.



Once more, rocket dog is there, somehow in between my husband and the island in front of him and the pieces that drop don't even stand a chance.

SoCo: I am dog and I knew you loved me best.  Thank you Daddy, that was yummy!

I guess patience does have it's benefits.  From my family and fat dog to yours - Happy Thanksgiving!

Friday, November 17, 2017

When Not Enough Becomes Too Much

Lately, I've seen so many posts about 'Women who are too much' like this one, and have totally related.  I've been too loud.  Too outspoken.  Too vulgar.  Too intimidating.  Too opinionated.  Too smart for my own good.

But on the flip side, I lived a life in stark contrast to that and have also been deemed not enough.  Not pretty enough.  Not thin enough.  Not patient enough.  Not pleasant enough.  Didn't try enough.

Perplexing, is it not, to be too much yet not enough all at the same time?  Why is it that other people feel the need to create standards that I am supposed to feel that I should live up to?  What is it about the concepts of too much and not enough that have become such a standardized means of human value that many judge their own personal worth when weighed against?

See, here's the thing: I AM ENOUGH.  AND I CAN NEVER BE TOO MUCH.  I'm a human being...not a cheesecake.  [OK, maybe not the best analogy because, honestly, there really can never be enough cheesecake; but I'm fairly certain the point has been received]

As I've been teaching my children - you give your best all of the time.  It's never too much, because well, it's the best you've got and the world needs all the best anyone has to give.  And you're never not enough; as when you've given your best, it's all you've got and it will never fall short.  You can't just "try harder" if you've already given it the max you could.  And the thing that I feel that where the fault lies is the perception that a human should be the best at all they endeavor rather than focusing on the happiness in the perseverance.  Or conversely that you're become too much because you have risen to the best in a category.

For example:  I will never be known for my patience.  But what I do have is enough.  And it runs short.  Quickly.  But, I continue to try and I give it my all and bite my tongue and clench my hands when I'm frustrated.  And it's enough...  Always.  And I'm happy with my efforts, because if I weren't, it would mean that I'm not trying my hardest.  So: enough.

To address the too much: I've been accused of being too intimidating more times than I can count.  By men I can only assume don't appreciate women who are more intelligent than they are, and by women I once more assume do not value their own intellect enough and seek to flip it into my issue of being too much.  I'm smart.  Crazy smart.  Smart on a level most don't understand.  I've spent too much of my life not being normal enough and hiding it.  And when I let that flag fly in all it's glory it's way too much for most. 

No one forces you to be friends with those you have grown to think are too much or not enough.  If someone else's best efforts fall short for you or are over the top - walk away.  Be kind in the moment and find another group to surround yourself with.  And if you're constantly being told to tone it down or to step it up when putting forth your all, look for those that will appreciate you and the gifts you have to give.  They're out there.

In my entire life I've found one man who has never uttered the words 'too much' or 'not enough' when referring to me.  I've never been too smart for him.  I've never been too outspoken.  And my best has always been ample because he knows I'm trying.  He's never tried to make me feel inferior.  That's who I choose to be around.  So, I married him.

And of my female friends...well, there's not many.  And that's ok.  All of them are enough.  Enough to be great friends and all I need.  And they know who they are.  And they're special; each one.  And they make me feel special, and that is all that matters.

So when you feel like you relate to the posts that you are too much or not enough - ask yourself if you've given your all, change your perspective and realize that you're just right the way you already are.  Enough is enough and never too much.

Friday, November 10, 2017

I'll Filth Your Foul Filth...

Long ago, I thought my children became immune to swearing.  It's no secret that I have a blatant love affair with dirty words.  I just can't help myself.  They flow out of my mouth before I can even take the time to realize that I've even cussed seven ways to Sunday until it's already been uttered.  Well, f#ck me...

Anyways, I thought they were words that my kids knew as "Grown up words".  [words that grown ups can say when their mom isn't going to get called into the principal's office if they let leash upon the general population.  I mean, only I will get in trouble for my potty mouth.] Words that they scarcely paid attention to because they heard them soooo much up in here.

Boy, was I wrong.

Let's start with the most common offender other than myself: my father.  Hmmm, guess what they say about apples and trees and all that.  This man can hardly string together a sentence without invoking the Lord himself; at least three times.  And while I prefer to spread the love and use a litany of differing curses, good ole Dad prefers Goddamn and Son-of-a-bitch. 

And the kids have kept a tally!  We've had as many as four Goddamns in a hideously run-on sentence and a whopping 30+ vulgarities total dropped in a single visit [let it be known he's usually here for about 3 hours, averaging out to over 10 blasts an hour].  Whew, that's some $h!+ indeed!

But the most recent one was the most amusing to me.  See, my brother keeps a running commentary on my obscene vernacular.  And usually after I sling about three or so in general conversation he points it out.  [shrugs]  His pristine mouth is beyond reproach...that is; unless he's doing manual labor.  Specifically, in this instance - helping to remodel my powder room.

Imagine if you would a room that's 4'x4'.  A man's legs are hanging out the door into the hallway.  And for whatever reason I cannot even remember at the moment, the Hoover Dam broke open.

"F#ck this goddamned MFing piece of $h!+ cock-sucking MFing SOB..."

I laughed.  My husband looked at me and laughed.

My son however was concerned.  Very. Concerned.  He came running into the kitchen.  "Mommy, is he ok?  I think he needs help!  It's not funny!  He needs help!  WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!?" [...which incidentally made my laughing even more]  See, my son was terrified that something was wrong with his uncle who doesn't swear in his presence, to have caused something so alarming to happen.  I'm not sure what he feared - that a toilet somehow dropped on his head? I have no freaking clue.

Me: [shaking head]  No idea, baby.  He's frustrated.  Go play.  He's fine.

My brother: WHORE!  DIRTY FILTHY GODDAMNED...

My oldest runs in: Mommy?  He alright?  Should someone help him?

My brother comes out of the bathroom wiping his hands and glaring at us.  My husband and I lose it into a fit of laughter.

Brother: F#ck You.

Friday, November 3, 2017

Squirrel!

I have never shied away from the fact that I have the attention span of a gnat.  And never has it been more visible than since I've resumed my full-time responsibilities at FH Inc..

Every morning I make my daily To-Do List and attempt to get through it.  A To-Do List for a grown woman?  Every day?  Yes.  Because if I don't have this list...well, it's too terrifying to ponder.  Here is how the typical Friday runs down for me:

To-Do List:
Set Up This Month's Budget & Bill Pay
Change Bedding
Do Laundry
Get Stamps
Grocery Store
[this is about 1/2 my daily list...but if I can get through these items, I'll consider it a huge win]

Here is how my day actually goes:

I sit down at the computer to do budget & pay bills. I actually do set up the budget, but in my attempt to open a new tab to pay the bills, I'm sidetracked by The FB blinking that I have multiple alerts.  In the midst of checking the alerts the younger two children come downstairs bickering.

I get up, resolve their conflict and take stock of the kitchen.  I start wiping counters...which then morphs into picking up the items that don't belong in my kitchen and I complain to any living thing with ears about how crap gets left all over the place and I'm the only one picking it up, but yet strangely; none of the stuff is mine.

"I am dog.  It's not mine either, Mommy.  Can I have a cookie?"

I lean down to pet my dog.  Ugh.  She needs to be fed.  I open the pantry and scoop her food.  While in the pantry, I see nothing is put in it's 'Sleeping with the Enemy' perfect place.  I begin to shift items around and turn cans so that the label faces out.  Faces.  Gross!  I need to brush my teeth.

I head upstairs where, you guessed it, I do anything but brush my teeth.  Oh!  I'm supposed to change the bedding today!  Woohoo!  I strip my bed down.  Back down the stairs I go to put the sheets in the washer.  Great!  Something accomplished.  Man!  I forgot to bring down all the other laundry.  I go back upstairs and start in my room and see the hubs has things sitting on the hope chest.  I have to mend things.  I scoop up items and go down into the craft room.  There's mending to do!

I set his clothes that are in need of buttons replaced on the counter and stretch and turn around.  Whoa.  My yarn stash is looking a little off it's game.  I should put "Get some yarn" on my list.  Upstairs I go.  I sit down at the computer, where I left my list and write: Yarn?  Hmmm...let's see if I can remove anything off my list.  Bedding?  Nope...  Let's fix that.

I head back upstairs to put clean sheets on the bed.  Did I brush my teeth yet?

This continues all day long until the kids come home.  We sit down to get through homework and then I start dinner.  Usually about then, I'm recapping everything accomplished in a mental check and I realize that I've still not brushed my teeth.  But hey!  The house is insanely tidy and while I didn't check but one or two of the big ticket items off my list, I've done quite a bit...I've even...

I should go up and brush my teeth - "HEY!!!  Whose shoes are these piled up by the front door?!?!"

Friday, October 13, 2017

But...I Am Dog.

I have zero shame in that I love my dog more than I like most people.  My dog is arguably one of the most amazing dogs ever, and those that have met her would agree.  She's lovable, and snuggly, and lazy, and oddly the most intelligent moron ever.  She was a dream to train, having only ever had a single accident in the house as a puppy!  And to many's surprise, she's trained to use a bell.  A bell that hangs on our door which she rings when she'd like to go out.

A bell, you're thinking?!?  Yep.  A bell.  She's a coonhound, and when she was a teeny puppy I had visions of an 80lb beast with a deafening bay in my then small home with low ceilings and hardwood floors.  So, I trained her to ring a bell. 

Now then, she and I have conversations.  Glorious conversations.  And I am not weird/alone.  Many people who come into my home have conversations with her.  While she cannot actually talk, her face is terribly expressive and she has a voice.  It's low for a female, and dopey...yet confident and full of certainty.  And when I was working, I always found myself longing to be home to have conversations with her.  ...what was I thinking?

[bell rings, my son puts SoCo out, three minutes later she barks twice to come back in]
Me: Ugh, you wrapped yourself around the deck.
SoCo: I am dog, and there were sniffies.  I was sniffing them.

[we go back inside...aaaaand three minutes later the bell rings again]
Me: Seriously?!?  Dude...  I'm not in the mood for your shenanigans.
SoCo: I am dog and it was wet out.  I had to pee.  I didn't have to poop.  Now I do. 
Me: You're killin' me, Smalls...

[I let her out; aaaaand three minutes later she barks twice again to come back in]
Me: SoCo, we are NOT doing this, this morning!  Did you do your business?
SoCo: I am dog and I pooped, Mama.  It's wet out and I don't like how it feels on my paws and you're going to complain that I smell like wet dog in about five minutes.  Let me in.
Me: Right...[sighing] you're right.  Let's go.

[we go back inside...aaaaand three minutes later the bell rings again]
Me: No.  Absolutely not!  You've peed.  You've pooped.  You did all that, right?  You're not going back out!  No.  Enough.
SoCo: I am dog and I did do those things.  But.  There's sniffies.
Me: You're not going out to sniff.  No way.
SoCo: I am dog and there's a squirrel!
Me: OMG, NO!
SoCo: The neighbor's cat?
Me: NOOOOO!
SoCo: The mailman!  I know he's lurking about.  Don't worry, I'll protect you.
Me: Sweet Jesus.  It's 7:30am.  There's no mailman, and are you kidding me?!?  Eric the mailman doesn't lurk.
SoCo: I am dog, and he lurks!  I've seen it.  You're not always home.  He's sketchy and I'm trying to save you.  You're ungrateful.
Me: Ungrateful?!?  Over the mailman who is NOT sketchy?  You're ridiculous.  Go lay down.
SoCo: I am dog and I'm laying down under protest.  [she throws herself onto the floor right in front of the door]  PROTEST!

Thank God.  I start muttering to myself as I do the dishes and push the younger Fay children along in their morning routines.  We're almost out the door to catch the bus...

[bell rings]
SoCo: I am dog, and I'd like to bark at you while you stand at the bus stop. 
Me: OMG, NO!
SoCo: ...but the mailman!  He's out there, I know it!  I'm just protecting you and my kids.
Me: NO!
SoCo: A chipmunk?  A squirrel?  That neighbor boy who stands in the front window and makes me upset with his yelling and faces? 
Me: No!  Go watch the Smithsonian Channel I put on for you.
SoCo: THE SMITHSONIAN CHANNEL?!?  Deal.  I won't ring again for another hour.

[facepalm]

Friday, October 6, 2017

What It's All For

Over the last three weeks, I've been asked a total of 1M times, "Why did you leave your job?"  Answers are rarely simple, but I wanted to put it to rest and say my piece.

Ultimately, the catalyst for me to leave my job was a battle over a day off.  Today, in fact.  I needed to care for my children.  The final nail in the coffin of that decision was when I was told to "try one more time to find alternative care for your children."  No.  Not happening.  I'm their mother, I AM their alternative care!

And every day of this first week back at resuming the role of CEO at FH Inc., the decision to walk away from what I was doing to be home has been solidified.  Solidified by the following:


  • Witnessing that last moment of warm peace as I wake my younger children up to get ready
  • That last kiss from my son as he gets on the bus, and the subsequent sadness that I just know they're going to end soon
  • Fixing my daughter's glasses every morning as they sit crooked on her little face
  • Verbally running them through their days to ensure they're as prepared and confident as they can be
  • Watching them play tag as they wait for their bus (and seeing my child include and invite the children on the bus whom haven't been kind to him)
  • Standing in the morning chill and listening to their shrieks of delight as they steal that final moment of play as the bus rounds the corner
  • Those five extra hugs I've missed out on since I've left before them
  • The weird and captivating glimpse into my brilliant daughter's mind as she tells me about her thoughts over breakfast 
  • Seeing their messy bed hair and their complete and utter lack of self-consciousness over it
  • The quirky outfits my youngest puts together
  • The look on their faces when I tell them how amazing they are
    • That quiet giggle
    • That quick tush-squoosh
    • That sweet kiss
    • That warm hug
When I was denied the day off, it was more than a day off that someone tried to tell me I wasn't entitled to have.  It was all the things above I felt in that moment being taken from me.  And I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to accept that.  As every item I listed above will be gone before I know it.  They'll be memories; and it'll be hard to have memories of what didn't happen.

So, this morning; the day I couldn't have off - I sit. Drink my coffee.  And marvel over all the tiny moments that have taken my breath away every day for the past five days.  I brush the tear that sneaked out [if you tell anyone...I'll throat punch you] away and revel in gratitude knowing I've got every single one because someone told me, "No." and I didn't accept that answer.


Monday, October 2, 2017

Today is THE day!

"Today is the day!  It's my next chapter.  I'm ready for it.  I can do this, and I'm going to make it look good while I do it!" [this is the pep talk I give myself when I first rolled over in bed this morning]  See, I quit my job.  Long story, as I'm sure all of the ones that start out with that sentence are...but I did it.  And I'm going to take care of my children, myself and my home.  Possibly in that order.  And I've psyched myself up for today.

I hit the button on my FitBit to stop the gentle alarm that is waking me from yet another weird assed dream.  I roll over and my feet hit the floor.  As I take that first morning stretch, I hear the shower.  Great!  My oldest is already up and mov...no, wait!  That's my husband!  In the shower!  He was supposed to be gone already!

Ugh. 

This isn't going to ruin the perfect day of domesticated bliss that I've mapped out in my noggin.  I refuse to let it.  It's a bump.  Yes, that's what it is.  This week was to be my week of transition, anyway.  Transition from my life revolving 100% around the kiddies and the hubs to shifting the focus onto myself [lookout, YMCA!  I've put classes on my calendar].  Get ready, dog...we're going for a walk!  Daily!  But first this week: putting my new home to rights as I've not done the change of season deep cleaning, taking the first steps to opening my own Etsy shop, setting up this month's budget and running those errands that I've put off and further off until I've almost forgotten what the hell I had to even accomplish.

I spent the last three-ish years working in education and out of respect for the children I worked around and a healthy dose of fear of asshat parents, I've not blogged like I used to.  So, here's notice: I'm. Back.  Buckle up; as the kids are older, the stories have gotten better [and you should read: wildly more inappropriate] and I've got nothing but time on my hands!

So, [sips coffee] watch out!  I'm caffeinated and ready to kick ass; one room and crochet stitch at a time.