Can Someone Get me Some Wine With This Whine?

Little Brat has an ear infection. Whooo. Big whoop. Ya, I heard y'all say that. I know. At least 99% of the earth's kid population has at least one ear infected at any given time. Big Brat had them all the time. Had one again last week. But, Little Brat isn't like other kids. She doesn't get sick.

This is a child who has, I kid you not, thrown up only twice in her life. I have friends that don't consider it a full day unless at least one of their kids puked. In Little Brat's whole entire 5 years and 10 months on this planet, she has only upchucked two times. And she managed to hit a nice, safe lino floor both time. What a kid.

But, now she has an ear infection. And how, oh HOW do I know she has an ear infection??? Why, she told me, of course. She told me when it started hurting......and 10 seconds later....and again in another 10 seconds....oh look, she just told me AGAIN. It's all started to blur together, really.

Over the last TWO DAMN DAYS.

"OooowwwwwwmyeaaarhurrrtsmommmmmyearoooooOOOOoowoowwoooowitreallyreally

reallyhurtsmooomoowwwwyowyowyooowOooowwwwwwmyeaaarhurrrtsmommmmmyear

oooooOOOOoowoowwoooowitreallyreallyreallyhurtsmooomoowwwwyowyowyooow......"

And so on.

BUT.....just to make my life OH SO MUCH more fun, she's not just whining about her ear. She's whining about EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. No, seriously, EVERYTHING.

"MooommmmmI'mcoldandmyearhurtsandIdon'tknowwhatgametoplayinthetuuuubbb

mommmyyI'mtiredandsleepyI'msooosleepymommyyyIdon'tlikethosepillsIwanttowatchamovie

MommmmmcanItakegymnasticspleaseohpleasemommmmysometimeswhenIpushmynailby

accidentithurrtscanIhavesomeraisins...."

I'm not kidding. I'm typing this as she talks. It doesn't stop. And it's the MOST ANNOYING VOICE EVER!

And, contrary to her insistence that she is OH SO sleepy, she doesn't stop moving. At all. Nice kids who love their mommies at least have the decency to get lethargic when sick. Not mine. OH NO. She needs to run arount the house with a 104 fever and WHINE about whatever she happens to be doing while running around.

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH.

I forgot the words to Jingle Bells today. I think I need a break from Christmas.

No, I didn't vanish again. Were y'all worried? Just a lot going on. I'm renovating my closet. My big, giant walk in closet. All by myself. Without husbandly help. Paint, flooring, shelving. Go me. I'm trying to get it done as quickly as I can. The entire contents of my closet are currently teetering atop a loveseat. Try to find socks in there, let alone underwear.

Speaking of underwear, I just bought a new pair today. Not usually news, I know. These ones are black and gold striped, though. So Solid Gold.

I had my staff Christmas party on Sunday night. I dressed totally early eighties/late seventies. It was SO Solid Gold. I know. Big gold hoops and all. And the Hair was SO Farrah. Hot rollers were one of mankind's greatest inventions.

I'm busy uploading all the evidence (oops, I mean photos) of the Christmas party to Facebook. Somebody remind me how Jingle Bells goes, would ya?
i

Random Updates

Random Update #1:

My speedometer broke. I have no idea how fast I am going. The needle has spun right around to the wrong side of the pin and won't move. I probably wouldn't mind so much if I wasn't one of those drivers that obsessively checks my speed. (I know, it's difficult to believe that I would be obsessive about something, but try to wrap your head around it.It's true.) I ALWAYS know how fast I am going. Even if I'm speeding, it's on purpose. If I were ever stopped by the fuzz and he (or she, but the visual is better with a he) sauntered up the car with his shiny mirrored sunglasses and slowly leaned into the open window while gazing into the horizon and drawled, "Ma'am, do you know how fast your were going?" I wouldn't be able to say no. Well, I could, but it would be a lie. And lying makes my eye twitch. So, I'd be busted, anyway. Although, I suppose having a broken speedometer sort of solves that problem, doesn't it?

Random Update B:

I had parent teacher interviews tonight. Little Brat's interview ran late because of all the gushing. Not from me, from the teacher. I get it. She's smart. Too smart. Smart enough to plan my murder and frame her big sister and get away with it. I know. Please stop telling her she will be Prime Minister some day. Her ego is big enough. I know. I encourage big egos. I have a nice healthy one myself. But she's a 1/4 my size. Rein it in there, bucko. Seriously.

Big Brat's interview was rather......interesting. I had yet to meet her teacher before tonight. The way she described him, I was expecting a cranky middle aged dweeb. Oh no. Not so. He was hot. HOT. H-O-T hot. Lick the tip of my finger and touch it to my ass making a ssssssssss sound hot. Me like-y the teach-y.

What? I know I'm happily married. A girl can look, can't she?

Apparently 13 year old girls don't want to hear that their moms think the teacher is yummy. Go figure.

Random Update 2 1/2:

Looking for that perfect Christmas gift for that perfect someone? Hint, hint. Nudge, nudge.

It's on sale!

Random Update 4+x=8 solve for x:

Did I get stupider during my little Internet hiatus? Why can't I get those mother-flipping word verifications on the first try? What the frick am I doing wrong? I KNOW I'm typing them in right. It's not rocket science, by golly.

Random Update V:

I've decided to adopt "by golly" as a regular phrase. By golly.

I almost did it today. I ALMOST killed a spider. I was almost brave.

Someone at work yelled "Spider!" in the lunchroom. I stood up, all courageous like, and strutted my stuff over to the scene of the invasion. I'm a big girl. I'm tough. I'm on various anxiety meds. Why can't I save my coworkers from the scary little demon bug?

Because it was HUGE. That's why. Big as my friggin' hand. I swear to Folgers. All hairy and buggy eyed and giving me that go-ahead-and-stomp-your-big-fat-foot-on-me-I've-got-plenty-of-friends-and-they-all-have-your-address look.

I'll kill the next one. Maybe.

See. Told you I'd be back soon. I'm sort of eating and typing right now. I've been at work all day and I'm starving. Not just regualr starving. I'm eat-a-big-mac-even-though-I-might-throw-up-afterwards hungry. So I'm eating a big mac. And typing. And face-booking. And dripping sauce on the keyboard. Ew. I'll be back later. Again.

Um....hi.

Just peeking my head around the door to see if anyone throws a rotten tomato at me.

I know I've been a bad blogger. I've been so busy. And crazy. More busy than crazy, but crazy definately played a role. Busy, though. Fixing my house. Broken computer. Getting promoted. Computer broken again. Blah blah blah. I know y'all don't want my excuses.

I am 100% back online, though. I promise. I swear. I know. You've heard that before. I really, really am.

Please don't throw a rotton tomato at me. Or at least don't hit too hard. I just got the damn computer fixed again.

Confession

I have to tell y'all something. It's something I'm not very proud of but, I gotta get it off my chest. And, if I can't be honest with y'all, who CAN I be honest with? Right? Am I right? Besides. They say that confession is good for the soul and blabbity blah blah. All I know, is that it's tearing me up inside. Oh sure. On the outside I'm all cute and spectacular. Everyone is fooled. They don't don't see the demon lurking deep within me. And it's time to let the demon out.

OK.......are y'all ready?......Deep breath now, Tara......you can do it.....just SAY it already.....ok......

I'm still in love with Corey Haim.

Ommigod. Did I really just say it? Ommigod. OK. Yes. It's true. I thought I could watch The Two Coreys last night and laugh along with everyone else at how sad and pathetic he has become. And I did. I really did. On the outside. I'm sorry, though. Inside, I was sighing and giggling and cutting out his picture from Teen Beat and hanging it on my wall with red marker hearts drawn all around him and Dream a Little Dream playing in the background over and over and over. I can't help it. I still want him. Like a kid wants a little puppy.

OK, I know. He's a loser. I know. Stop yelling at me. I KNOW. He's obnoxious and insensitive and inconsiderate. And he cries like a little baby. But, I don't think I'm the only one that feels like this after last night's show. Nu-uh. I know there are more like me. It's the bad boy that's still left in him. You know you saw it, too. Don't lie to me. I KNOW I'm not the only one.

Admit it. When you heard him in the hot tub whine that he hasn't been laid in long time, you laughed. But, I know. Inside your head you were screaming and waving your arms in the air, just like me. "Pick ME, Corey Haim! PICK ME! I love you! And I promise I won't make fun of you or make you yell 'Death by Stereo' right in middle of all the fun! PuuhhhhleeeEASE Corey Haim! What? Who? Oh that guy beside me on the couch? Ya, that's my husband. Oh, ya. He knows I want you. He's OK with it. That would give him free rein to go after Fergie or Gwen or some other unattainable goal. Just ignore him. He's not a part of our love. Unless you want him to kick Susan Feldman's ass. Because you are SO right. She's NOT one of the Coreys and she NEVER will be, the stupid Yoko-head. Pick ME, Corey Haim."

You were TOO, thinking that. I know you were.

Phew. Don't we all feel a little better now?

I Gots the Stress. Want Some?

What? What's this bright light? It's blinding me. What? It's the sun? Really? Huh. I guess that's what happens when you live in a deep, dark hole for a few weeks. Or months. Whatever.
Yes, I'm here. No, I'm not fixed. But, I am better. Thanks to my doctor and a few little pills. Love those pills.
I went to the doctor and described the way I was feeling. You know. Sad, listless, unmotivated and tired all the time. Oh, and that pesky little problem with my heart racing really fast and making it feel like I was having a heart attack.
He looked and me and said " You're stressed."
Well duh. Who isn't stressed. I've been stressed since I was 13. So?
"No," he says " You're clinically stressed. Stressed out. Your body is fed up with you being stressed."
Huh. Go figure. It was a little bit shocking. I just thought I was depressed. Apparently I gots the stress, though. Which was great when I got home that night. Honey, I CAN'T do the dishes. I gots the stress. Children, don't make me angry. I gots the stress. You don't want mommy to have a heart problem, do you?
So, I got some little pills.
They kind of mess me up a little, too. I can live with that, though. It's just little things. Like having trouble sleeping. Which is being helped with another little pill. Or like not really having an appetite. Oh no. Heavens to Betsy. How awful that I no longer have a desire to eat myself to 500 pounds. It's a tragedy. I only want to eat what I need to stay alive and leave the chips and dip for someone else. Damn those side affects. They've made me lose 10 pounds.
Oddly enough, the lack of appetite does NOT work on ice cream. In fact, I had ice cream for dinner 2 nights in a row. Peanut butter ice cream. And rainbow sherbet for dessert. I'm a grown up, dammit. I can have ice cream for dinner if I want to.
And yes, my stomach protested later on. Will I do it again? Probably.
Besides, my kids are out of town. They went to visit my family for a month. So I don't have to set an example. Hah.
Yes, it's been a break with the 2 monsters gone. But, I am still working a lot. I'm pretty sure I like this job. It's tiring and stressful, but with my little pill buddies and AWESOME ice cream dinners, I can handle it.
Also, I just got my next royalty check yesterday. Since the book was released, it has so far sold over 2800 copies. Oh ya. I'm a superstar.
So that helps.
But, the biggest aid in my recent depression is the news that I got. It's GREAT news. EXCITING news. Something I have waited years and years to hear. Finally, everything has come full circle and I can rejoice.......

.....THE COREYS ARE TOGETHER AGAIN!

I am so excited I could pee myself. Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, reunited. Oh my frickin GAWD. It's like a sick and twisted dream come true. Now we just need to work on an all out Fact of Life reunion movie and I can crawl back in my hole and die a happy gal. You can bet I will be discussing the show on here. Be forewarned.

I know this a weird and rambling post. Don't judge me. I'm out of practise. I will try my bestest not to go 3 months with no post again. I might even pick up a crochet hook again soon. Also, I want to thank everyone who sent me emails of concern and caring. I really do think bloggers are the best folks on the net.

Now go eat ice cream. It's awesome.

Hey Peeps. What's up. I don't really have a lot to talk about right now. Unless you care that I just mopped my floor and ate chips for breakfast. But, that's OK. I lost 3 lbs. I can have chips if I want. Not with my coffee, though. Ew. That would be gross.

I got my first royalty statement for my book. Anyone wanna guess how many books have sold so far? Go ahead. Guess. It's a respectable number. Or at least I think so. But, perhaps I am biased. It's not like the check was big, but that was because I had an advance. I can buy a few coffees, anyway. My next check will be bigger. Assuming the book continues to sell well. So, if you haven't already bought a few copies, the link is in the sidebar. Wink wink. It's never to early to buy for Christmas!

I also just sent in another deisign that was accepted. I don't know which book it will be in yet, but you can all be sure I'll let you know.

I have to work tonight. I'll be missing Survivor. Maybe someone can give me an update once it's over. Last week's tribal council was HILLarious. I love when people get blindsided on camera like that. SO funny.

Boring post, I know. I can't be witty and charming ALL the time peeps, although we all know I try. This time you can blame it on my husband and dog. They had a symphany of snores last night that was designed to lull me into a sleep only to yank me back out again. Over and over. Brilliant execution. Not even coffee will help me today, methinks.

That's a word we don't use enough anymore. Methinks. Today's assignment for y'all is to use the word 'methinks' in a sentance.

Go forth and enjoy your day.

I've been working. And working. And workings some more.But, yes. I have been on Facebook a lot, too. I can't help it. It's very addictive. And not in a good way, like a yarn addiction. It's a little bit disturbing, as well.

I'm finding all kinds of friends and aquaintances that I never really thought to hear from again. Some I'm happy to see. Some I'm leary of. Some are surprising. Almost all of them make me feel old. And, in one case, a friend I have tried to look up in the past won't be found because I just found out that he died about eight years ago. And I didn't even know.

I've always told people that if I don't keep in touch, it's not them, it's me. I'm horrible at it. But, that's about to stop. I don't want to find out in another 8 years that someone else that I cared about is gone and I didn't do all I could to keep in contact.

Overall, though, Facebook is a riot. I won't be stopping. If anyone else has a facebook account and wanted to try finding me, it wouldn't be that hard. Wink wink.

If you don't already have an account, though, just a word of warning. You may have nothing but great times finding people and catching up. Or, your facebook experience may sound something like this:

YOU: Hi Facebook, what's up? What? What's this? You have something for me. How nice. What is it? It's odd looking. Like a cylinder of some sort. Made of metal. Huh. Interesting. A can. Thanks, I guess. What? You want me to OPEN it? Oh, OK. Sure. Do you know where I could get a can opener? Oh, you have one. How handy. Great. Hang on, let me just open this here can.....hang on....almost have it.....AHHHH! WORMS!! What the hell!? Facebook, you gave me a can of worms! And I opened it! WHY, FACEBOOK, WHY?


Just a warning.

How much FREAKING fun is facebook?!?!!!!!

I know I haven't said much about the Amazing Race this run, but I have been watching it. It was a little anti-climactic when Rob and Amber left. I was really rooting for them. Why? I don't know. I hated them both on the their first Survivor, then grudgingly respected their second Survivor. By the first TAR they were on, I loved them. I want to invite them over to my place for a BBQ. Maybe a few beers. Except that I don't drink beer, so maybe Amber and I can have some nice wine coolers.

Anyway....

I am at the point where I may have to watch the final legs of the race with my eyes closed. Because to watch the 'Little People' win this race would be enough to shatter my fragile mental state. It really would. Yes, I call them BOTH 'Little People'. Not politically correct? Maybe. If I was talking about any one's height. I'm not. I'm referring to their BRAIN CAPACITY.

What IDIOTS they are. They are the rudest and most ignorant people. In ANY country. And what's with the stupid half Spanish, half eastern-European accent they use in every single country? Even the ones where people speak English. Shut up, already.

Sure, it's somewhat entertaining to watch a midget in a suit of armor. A downright giggle-fest, really. But, I would rather they were gone. I don't like them. If I knew them in real life, I would have to get Amber to put down her wine cooler and kick their asses.

I know they put people like that on the show, just so all of us watchers will rant and rave and hop on their blogs and message boards and mention TAR and the contestants as many times as possible so that they can be king of the castle in the world of Google. I know. And yet, here I am, giving them what they want.

Whatever. Next week. Next week they'll be gone. The idiots.

Rambles

*please note that I AM aware that today is Friday the Thirteenth. I know that in the past I have made a big deal about it, but those are usually Friday the Thirteenths in which I can spend my day cowering in my house while sticking my tongue out and making random rude noises and occasional yelled curses at Friday the Thirteenth and all the bad luck that comes with it. Since I cannot hide in my house today and must brave the big, scary Friday the Thirteenth world to go to work later, I have decided on a new tactic. I'm just ignoring it. Yup. I'm blatantly choosing to forget what today's date it. Beyond this special note, that is. Or when I get to work later and have to write the date about 800 times in one shift. But, otherwise, I am NOT going to comment on the date. At all. Sorry. OK, on to the non-scary (at least not in a Friday the Thirteenth way) post.

Hey.

What's up?

Yes, I spent the week in bed. It was actually for health reasons, this time. And I don't mean mental health. It was migraines and a cold. I'm very sorry to say that my week in bed was not enjoyable.

Today I am paying for it by needing to clean my entire house in a few hours. Blech. My littlest kid (aka Little Brat), had her 5th birthday the other day, and tomorrow will be her party. So, the house has to be clean. If you've been keeping up with my sporadic posting, you may have an idea of how much cleaning there is. However, I have already planned my shortcuts. The office and bedroom doors will be closed. If you don't tell the other moms what's behind those doors, neither will I.

I'm really hoping that only a few kids show up for the party. Is that wrong? Whatever. She's five. She'll get over it.

Right now we are absolutely covered in snow. Yes, snow. I know. It's spring. And even though I am in Canada, this is STILL ridonkulous. It's the middle of flipping April, Mother Nature. Give me a ding dong break. Yesterday morning, when the snow started, Little Brat did a 'stop snowing dance' to, well, make the snow stop. I'm not sure what she did, but I think she made it snow harder. We have more snow right now than we did at Christmas. Thanks, Brat. Thanks a lot. Keep your bad mojo to yourself.

Umm......what else....

So, last weekend, I actually spent 2 whole nights in my house....ALONE. Yes, alone. The whole fam damily drove to the mother-in-laws (two hours away) on Good Friday for Easter dinner, but I had to work on Saturday, AND we were expected back on Sunday for dinner at the father-in-laws. So, I drove back on Friday night on my own. To spend Friday and Saturday night on MY OWN. I can't even remember the last time that happened. I think I was still in my teens.

As I was driving home, all by myself, without kids fighting or a husband changing the radio station, or anyone (except me) needing to stop for pee breaks, I decided to stop and get a snack. I went to MacDonald's. Yes, without kids. Why? I'm not sure. I was going to get a Coke, but then a little word popped into my head. Milkshake. MILKSHAKE. Why don't I get a milkshake? When was the last time I got myself a milkshake? I couldn't remember. Why? Why have I stopped buying milkshakes?

And then I remembered. KIDS. Kids, who beg and whine and plead for milkshakes have FORCED me to be an example of a responsible person and not have a milkshake every day. Or, apparently, ever.

But, I was alone. ALONE. I didn't have to be an example to anyone. So, I ordered a milkshake. For just my very self. I am also, it seems, entirely out of practice ordering milkshakes, because I asked for a large.

Did you know that the large MacDonald's milkshake is roughly the size of one of those firefighting buckets then hang under helicopters? I had no idea. Of course, I didn't want to cause a fuss and ask for a different size, so I just told myself "Come on, Tara. Just because you have 83 litres of milkshake, it doesn't mean you have to drink 83 litres."

Yeah, right. Obviously, I don't listen to myself any better than my kids do. And obviously, I should leave milkshake drinking to the more experienced. Perhaps those with larger stomachs.

Thank Folgers my kids didn't see that.

Off to drink coffee and clean. I promise.

I want to thank everyone who commented and emailed yesterday. I'm so glad I have y'all as friends. I'm not embarrassed about being depressed, but it's certainly not the kind of thing that I advertise. People don't really seem to look at you the same once they think you are a few turnip sacks short of a full load. As a result, I never seem to be able to vent. I should have known I could count on all of you.

Depression is not new to me or my family. Thankfully, I do not get as severely depressed as the rest of them. I've never needed the happy pills before (although I am considering it now), and I have never been suicidal. My family (and I mean EVERYONE in my family) gets pretty crazy once in a while. A lot of them are on pills and it's not all that much of a surprise anymore to hear of a botched suicide attempt. It's pretty tiring, actually, but I'm glad most of them are so bad at it. So far, only my grandmother and a bottle of Tylenol 3 were successful (that was about 22 or so years ago).

Anyway, I'm not that bad. And I wouldn't let myself get that bad. If the worst part of my depression is a messy house and some pretty crappy feelings, I won't stress too much about that. But, it is hard to tell people in your life about it.

I've discussed it with my husband, but it tends to freak him out. Like a typical male, he wants to FIX things. Like I'm broken, or something. He immediately assumed that I was unhappy with my life, blamed himself, then started making plans to quit the army, move out west and be a cop (so I could be closer to my family). I told him HE was nuts. I don't want to move. I'm not unhappy.

I think that's the hardest part to explain to the non-depressable people. There is a HUGE difference between sad and unhappy. They want to pin the sad feelings to something. Some event or person. They are just random feelings, though. The only difference is that once the depression is there, little events DO make you sad or angry when they normally wouldn't.

For instance, we have no brakes on our van. I've already missed one shift and will have issues getting to work tonight. It's stressful. So I stayed in bed until almost noon.

Also, the dinosaur diorama was actually fun to make yesterday. It even has a few play-doh blobs that slightly resemble dinosaurs. And a volcano. And rocks. And, because five-year-olds always want to contribute their favorite play-doh masterpieces, the diorama has a few pre-historic play-doh snakes. And worms. And purple logs for the triceratops to eat. Unfortunately, I woke this morning (afternoon) to find that the pterodactyl has vanished. I strongly suspect the cat, since he was trying to play with it last night as it lay drying, but it could have been the dog, too. Lucky for both of them that I don't know who did it. Usually the thought of making a new play-doh dinosaur would perk me up. Not today. I don't really feel like it.

So, I guess I will spend the rest of the day trying to clean the kitchen and hoping I get a way to go to work.

Thanks again, everyone. Y'all are like my own little happy pills.

Where I Have Been Hiding

I have to be honest with y'all. I haven't been online much. In the past few weeks, I've mostly only been on the computer to check my bank accounts and to write a few emails. I have not really had any interest at all in doing anything else.

I want to assure all of you that it's not you, it's me. I've been a little on the depressed side. It's not really bad. At least not right now. I was starting to get really crazy a few months ago, but I am feeling a little better each day.

There's nothing wrong. Really. It's all chemical. My kids are fine. My husband is fine. And, although my new job is new and slightly more stressful than counting up dollar store items, this started way before I got a new job. I'm reasonably sure that it started out as a seasonal thing. What with not seeing sunshine between October and February.

I am spending most of my off-time in bed. I pretty much just want to sleep right now. There's not enough coffee in the world to perk me up. Ironically, all of my new co-workers like to tell me that I have more energy than anyone they know. Weird. I have been crocheting a bit, because I have a deadline for a small publishing project, but not as much as I should be. Usually a deadline would make me a lot more industrious.

Of course, my main problem, which I was afraid of happening, is my hoarding issues. This is not the first time in my life that I have been depressed, so I should know what to expect. I get in this state of mind where any amount of dirt or untidiness in the house makes me want to huddle in a corner and cry. As a result, I ignore it. And so the mess piles up. And up. And UP. My house is disgusting right now.

It's difficult to explain to people who have never felt it. I can't actually physically make myself clean things. I try. I try to make plans and lists. I tell myself that all I have to do is pick up that thing off the floor and put it away, but then I start to feel overwhelmed and end up going to bed.

Anyway, that's what I have been doing the last few weeks. Hiding in bed. But, I am gradually starting to feel better. I am out of bed right now, at 9:37 am, so that's already an improvement. And I plan to help my youngest with a dinosaur diorama for school later on. That may help.

Don't worry about me. I'm OK. Or at least I will be. And I think I can come online more often now. In between trying to catch up on my cleaning. Baby steps, though. I have to be careful not to overwhelm myself, or else I end up right back in bed again.

So, that's my excuse. I'm sorry. I'll be around more. And maybe I will even be funny again soon, and not so lame and depressing.

In Case Your Were Wondering....

Just in case you have recently purchased a new chandelier at a certain home improvement store, and saw that the box had been previously opened, but bought it anyway, and then took it home to find out that there is a big scratch on it and it is missing a glass bulb cover.....YES. That can be returned to the store. No problem. HOWEVER...... If you choose to take a few hours of sweat and tears to install it ANYWAY......and then come to the store with nothing but your receipt and your pretty smile demanding all of your money back... I won't do that. No. Nu-uh. Go away. I have rational thinking customers to deal with.

Deep Drive Thru Moment

This morning, I had an epiphany.

I was in the line up for the Tim Horton's drive thru during the morning rush. It was busy. It always is that time of day. It usually moves fairly steadily, and I wasn't in a big hurry, and I really didn't feel like getting out of the car. I was driving my husband to work, so I'm pretty sure I didn't even wear a bra. Nobody wants to see that in the morning.

The line up was moving along all right, but then it stopped. And where was I in the line? I was in that sweet spot where you can no longer back out, but you're not about to go forward anytime soon. Because some idiot who's dumber than a bag of hammers has ordered something stupid like 24 different coffees, all different fixings (not anything easy like double double or triple triple), 18 breakfast sandwiches, and 3 dozen different donuts and muffins. And, he probably forgot to tell them about all his roll-up-the-rim tabs that he's cashing in.

So, I had no choice. I had to wait. That long and eternal wait that feels so darn unfair. Because, yes, it was MY choice to go there, instead of making coffee at home or going to McDonald's or something, but it's THEIR fault because of whatever they put in their coffee to make me agree to long and eternal drive thru waits. And why, WHY, can't I just have a life where I don't have to get up so early and wait in line like all the other robots powered by caffeine?

And then I saw the car in front of me. I won't go into the details, but I knew who was in that car. I had seen it before. It was distinguishable because of the licence plate. It specifically declared them a winner. Yes, a BIG winner. A lottery winner. They won quite a bit, along with a few other people. It was in the papers. Good for them. That must be great.

And then it hit me.

THEY get stuck in the drive thru line, too. It doesn't matter. The money doesn't change it. You can have a nicer house and fancy cars and trips to Europe, but if you want Tim Hortons coffee at 6 am, and you get stuck in the same line up as all of us poor folk, the money doesn't make it better and it doesn't make it go faster.

Being smarter doesn't make it better. Being more popular doesn't make it better. Being prettier and having bigger boobs doesn't make it better. And having more money than anyone else in town, that didn't make it better, either.

So, here's the big epiphany.

Life is like a Tim Horton's drive thru. It doesn't matter who you are, what you have, how good or bad you are, or how much you pray. Sometimes life goes smoothly, but sometimes it sucks. And sometimes it's somebody else's fault, but sometimes it's just bad weather. And sometimes all you can do is wait patiently for the sucky times to end. And hope that in the end, after you go through it all, they made your coffee the way you like it.

The Better Late Than Never Survivor Rant

Let's just forget that I have been gone for a while. OK? Let's. It's going to be more normal, now. I am home during the days, again. Days when I can sit and enjoy a coffee at the computer, again.

There will also be more crocheting. The book is doing well, and I have been asked to do at least one more small project. I will also be submitting other ideas to the publisher. I'll show y'all anything that gets rejected.

I also want to thank all of you who have purchased a Save Spook mini-pin (see the sidebar). It's not a fortune, but it helps a bit. So, ya. Thanks. Anyone want the cat, too?

And, while I have some other thoughts, ideas, musings, rants, raves, and all around observations, I DID promise y'all a Survivor rant. So, here it is.

IT'S BEEN SO DAMN BORING WATCHING THAT SHOW!!!!!

What the hell?! I know. I get the whole rich get richer, poor get poorer theme. But, PLEASE. Let's move on with the game. Why does it have to be a life lesson? It's just a reality TV show. We're not watching it for the betterment of our minds and souls. We're watching it to see normal (I use that term somewhat loosely) people roll around in the mud and fall into the water and sleep on piles of rocks and eat random living things pulled from the ocean and fall off of logs that they stood on for a bajillion hours. THAT's what we want, Jeff!!!! Get on with it!

The commercials are showing a big shakeup for tonight. Whatever. I'll watch it. I may even like it. But, so far, it seems very engineered to me. Yes, I know. ALL reality shows are engineered. I'm not so dense that I don't think that. I just like when they hide it really, really well.

All that being said, I would TOTALLY have been the first one voted off if my talking to much was a problem for people like Rocky. I wouldn't have even made it off the boat. Why would YOU be voted off first?

Teaser

I know. I KNOW. You miss me. I know. I miss me, too. It's been very busy here in Taradise. I've been training. And breaking in brand new steel toed shoes. Don't worry. They're cute.

I paid the extra forty bucks for the cute ones. I AM still Tara, after all.

So, yes, I now work at The Home Depot. I love the Dollar store. I really do. I LOVE the deals. But, it's not like I got a discount, and I WILL still be shopping there.

Home Depot is just more of a challenge for me. We all know how smart and funny and personable I am. Right? RIGHT? And Home Depot recognized that, too, and put me on the special services desk. Because I'm special. Tee hee.

I'm home all day today, and I have more on my mind that I want to grace my blog with. I just have to actually get some housework and crap like that done. Stupid laundry. Come see me later for my Survivor rant.

Buy! Buy! Buy!

Ok! It's back on sale! BUY IT! I am! For myself. And one for my mom, too! And my mother in law. And my sisters. And my dad, even though he probably won't crochet. And one for each of my kids. And my niece and nephew. Aw, heck. I might as well just use them as next years Christmas cards!

Ta-DAAAAAA

Fab Blankie

Jackson Five? Yes? No? That's kind of the feel I was going for with the blankie I made for little Michael. I call it the Fab Blankie. Or maybe the Fablankie. Whatever. Here it is.

I don't know when I will actually be able to give it to the little guy, since he's 2 hours away in a Children's hospital, but I'm sure he knows it's here waiting for him.

I didn't write the pattern down as I went. To be honest, I was just trying to use up all that yarn. Do the colors seem familiar? A lot of them are leftover colors from the bagholders.

Fear not, my loyal minions. I have a nephew about to be born in about a month. He will need to be blankie fabulous, as well. I'll jot down the pattern for you then. I promise.

Now go back to work, or homework, or cleaning, or whatever it is you should be doing instead of playing on your computer.

WORSHIP ME!

HOLY CRAP!!!!! It's finally here! The time has come! WHOOPEE!!!

(Please hold a moment while Tara dances around her office with her dog. Don't look. It will just be embarrassing for everyone. I said don't look.)

I'm FREAKING PUBLISHED!!!! I have FREAKING CREDENTIALS now!!! I am a freaking crochet designer! For REALS.

Ya. I'm hot. You know it.

And now you are all asking what the hell I am talking about.

Well, silly gooses (geese?), just click on the link below to take you to the Annie's Attic New Releases page. Ya. I said it. Annie's Attic. New Releases. Page.

The one on the left. YES. That's ME! I swear! Don't y'all remember that corn cob bag from FOREVER ago? And then suddenly it vanished from the internet forever? That was copyright issues, peeps! And I've been DYING to talk about it ever since.

Annie's Attic contacted me and said something like "Hey, we really dig your far out corny corncob plastic bag holder. Groovy. Do you think you could come up with any more fab plastic bag holder ideas?" And I said SURE. So I DID. And they said MAKE THEM. So I DID. And now I have a freaking BOOK with my freaking NAME on it!!!

I know this has nothing to do with my other interesting news that I was hinting at yesterday. Which I still can't tell you. But, soon. And on top of it all, my best friend was rushed to the hospital to have her premature baby yesterday morning. She scared the HELL out of me. She's OK and so is the baby. He's small, though, and will need some time to grow in the hospital. She hasn't named him yet, but she LOVES Michael Jackson (don't ask, it's an illness she has), and has already been married on his birthday so her husband is pretty against the idea of calling the baby Micheal, but I think it's a nice name regardless of the namesake, and until they give me a different name to call little Michael, that's what I'm calling him. I was only half finished little Michael's blanky when I got the call, what with supposedly having another 2 months to finish it, so I stayed up late last night crocheting to get it done. Pictures and possible pattern to follow soon.

Now, please go ahead and gush about how privileged you all feel to cyber-know a celebrity crocheter. Please. Make me blush.

EDIT***** I just found the page where you can PURCHASE the book! Yes! PURCHASE IT!

CLICK HERE

EDIT AGIAN******* I don't know why, but the link to purchase is gone now. Whatever. Keep checking. I'll make sure I post again when it's up and running.

Hint # One

A small hint of what I have been up to. The full story coming soon....

I know. I'm such a tease.

And, since I was asked to tell y'all something interesting about MYSELF.....well....um. OK. You know that little dent in your chin? Between your lip and your chin bone (What, do I look like a doctor? Like I would really know the technical terms). Anyway. Ya. I have muscles there. They allow me to hold things. In my chin. Like straws and pencils and crochet hooks. I know. You all think you can do it, too. Everyone always says that when I tell them. But, then they try it. And I have yet to meet anyone that can actually do it as well as I can. Except for maybe THIS guy:

I'm still alive. I swear. Call off the search party. I'll explain my absence as soon as I can. While waiting......why not tell me something interesting about yourself? That sounds like fun, eh?

The Hair: Head Covering or Comedy Act?

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for loving the Hair. I still love it, too. You know how sometimes, after a haircut, you feel like you can't get used to it? Ya. That didn't happen. At all. It's a very good relationship we have, me and The Hair.

However, I feel as though The Hair has played a bit of a funny on me. Ha ha.

You see, I grew up looking like Sara Gilbert. You know her as 'Darlene' from Rosanne. This wasn't just a slight resemblance. EVERYONE told me that. My family even called me Darlene. Strangers would cross the street to tell me I looked just like her. One time, at Universal Studios (and only days after an as yet un-relaxed perm) I was mobbed by a bunch of tourists that thought I WAS her. I hid under a bench. I'm serious. My dad has the home video somewhere.

It didn't help that we are close to the same age.

I did NOT encourage this. I like Sara Gilbert. She's an OK actress to watch on the odd sitcom. But, she's not exactly stalker material, is she? She's no Jennifer Anniston, after all.

Through the years it died off a little. Mostly after Rosanne went off the air. Then people thought I looked a little more like Drew Berrymore, for some reason. I like that better. She IS an Angel, you know.

I also hear fairly often that I look JUST like some guy's ex-girlfriend. I don't know what the hell that's about. It's only slightly more disturbing, though, than the few times I've been told I sound Irish, considering I've never been there.

But, I digress....

So, I have avoided 'Darlene' haircuts for years. And, perhaps, that is why it has taken me so long to find a nice home for The Hair. But, I let my guard down. I wasn't paying attention. I slacked off in the I-Don't-WANT-to-Be-a-Celebrity-Lookalike department. Even after all those times when my darling husband would see Ms. Gilbert doing her famous bitch routine on some show like ER, and he would say, every time, 'Look, Dear. It's you.' Hardy, har har.

So now there is a new show on TV. It's called the Class. It's hilarious. I love it. And, Sara Gilbert is on it occasionally. She plays Fern, the bitchy and scary scorned wife of another character. She's funny, too. I would have to say, one of my favorite rolls for her.

But, I wasn't paying attention. And The Hair was begging for a new look. And I got Fern's haircut. Dammit.

Which one is me? Oooooooh.

Yesterday, my dad sent me an email addressed to Darlene.

Very funny, Hair. Very funny. You're just lucky I love you so darn much.

Hypothetical Advice Needed

*Keep in mind that this is a hypothetical scenario and I have no plans to cheat on my husband. Love ya, Honey!

Let's say you have a boyfriend. He's cute and funny. A nice guy. It's not serious, yet. No commitment. No rings. No apartment hunts. No fluffy little dog that you call your 'baby'. But, it's fun. And mutually beneficial. Wink, wink.

But, then, along comes this other guy who asks you out. He's cuter. And smarter. And richer. A LOT richer. As in, 'Let's go away to my little cottage in Maine for the weekend' kind of rich. And he's classy. No jeans and T-shirts. He buys right from the pages of GQ.

So, you have Guy #1 (who is comfortable and fun to be around and you already have him partially house trained) and you have Guy #2 (who is sooooo tempting, but you don't really know that much about him, but that doesn't make him a bad choice by itself, right?). And, that's where the dilemma lies.

Because, what if Guy #1, for as fun as he is, is really just using you. Just a little. For fun. And that's been OK until now. But, what if you WANT that security. And commitment. And somebody to want you for longer than a fling. Is that really so much to ask?

And, here's Guy #2, offering that. But, what if you ditch #1 only to find out that #2 is a complete jackass. What if he's a nose picker? Or his family hates you? Or he likes to yell a lot?

But, you've already hurt #1, and he won't take you back. So, it's stay with #2, or be alone. All alone.

Any hypothetical advice?

The Hair

I know you've all been such patient little troopers. It's time, though. The Hair is done. And the photo of The Hair is taken.

But, first, we must discuss The Hair. Why? Because it's my blog, that's why. Suck it up and read on.

The Hair has had a wild and crazy ride throughout it's life perched on top of my head. It has seen boy cuts, mushroom cuts, poodle perms, bad dye jobs, etc. It hasn't always been pretty. And, for the most part, I didn't care. I did not style The Hair myself. I was a rebel. I chose to ignore the big bangs of the eighties and opted for long, straight bangs hiding in my face. A decade later, when everyone wanted long, straight bangs hanging in their face, I got swirly, curly perms. In the end, I almost never liked The Hair.

However, that did not stop me from having an illogical attachment to The Hair. I had difficulties letting anyone cut The Hair. I could go months, even a year, without getting The Hair cut. And when I did, I felt like I was getting a limb cut off.

Why? Because I have issues. Keep up, people.

Also, just about the only time The Hair was styled (for school photos or flower girl gigs), my mom would curl The Hair with a curling iron. My mom wielding a hot metal stick was a scary thing indeed. In fact, I had more than one line of burnt skin across my forehead while growing up. Hence, perhaps, the need to curl The Bangs over the forehead. To hide the scars.

I'm sorry, Mom. You know it's true.

So, in summary, The Hair has had a tumultuous life. I feel, however, that The Hair has a resting point. A style that it strives to be. YEARNS to be. MUST BE. It's all very scientific. Really.

So, through absolutely no scientific process at all, I feel that The Hair has finally found it's destiny. With the help of my stylist, Leva. Who kept telling everyone that I was getting my hair cut like Farrah Foster. Whatever.

OK. Are you ready? For sure?

First, a sneaky surveillance photo of what The Hair looked like before:

OK, here it is. Get your hands ready for clapping......

I know. I know. The Hair is FABULOUS. It was slightly more fab last night, but the damn camera batteries needed more time to charge. It's still AWESOME, though. Not quite Jill Munroe, but close. Maybe a little bit of Sabrina and Kelly thrown into the mix. I will need a much better curling iron, too. For bigger curls. BIG.

You should probably stop drooling now. I know you love The Hair, but you don't want to electrocute yourself by dripping on your keyboard.

And, just as a special weekend treat for all my visitors to Taradise, a photo I found of myself when I was younger....as a detective.

Nancy Drew, watch your ass.

My hair is SO GORGEOUS!!!!!!

Photo is coming. My camera battery died. Be patient.

Let's talk PI. No. I don't mean 3.14159265. That would just be weird. And totally out of character for me. Seriously. When have I ever shown y'all an interest in math? Even though my mom is a brilliant accountant. Sorry, Mom.

And I don't mean pies. As in apple or blueberry. Although, that did just make me want some apple crisp with my coffee.

No, I mean private investigators. PI's. Private Eyes. Dicks. Angels, if you will.

So, I was at work earlier this week, and I was talking to a coworker about Charlie's Angels (does that sound familiar?), and then I was telling her about an an ad I had heard on the radio in which the friendly announcer was asking if anyone had ever dreamed of being a PI. At which point I raised my right arm, waved it around and yelled "Me! ME! I wanna be a PI!!!!" It was a bit shocking to the people in the next car, I think. And, since I am THAT kind of story teller, I repeated that action to my poor, poor coworker while I related the story.

Wouldn't you know it....right at that time, in my little dollar store, was a tall and beautiful woman. She stopped in her tracks and gave me an odd look. Well, that's not out of the norm, but then she spoke. And told me that SHE was a private investigator. YES. I'm serious!

And, I kid you not, she was wearing tall black boots and a snazzy trench coat. YES SHE WAS. Would I lie to y'all?

So, I grilled her a little. Did she love her job? Yes, it was different everyday. Did she work for a big firm or a small agency? A big firm, but I was too excited to retain that information. Was she local? No, she was only in town for the day and worked out of a much bigger city.

I wanted to ask her how much her hair played a role in her job as a private eye, but I didn't. Her hair was gorgeous. So, she must know how well it works already.

I gotta tell ya, peeps. I want to be a PI. I WANT it. I CRAVE IT. This is not new. This didn't just pop into my pretty little head since I started re-watching the Angels. I have wanted this for as long as I can remember. Since I was a little girl snooping through anything and everything my parents owned. Sorry, Mom. I watched Murder She Wrote and Remington Steele, too. And Quincy. Not to mention that I had and read every single copy of Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon AND the Bobsey Twins. And Encyclopedia Brown. And I read them all many times over.

I know I have no qualifications. Besides my hair, starting tomorrow. And my extensive fiction reading, of course. But, I am pretty good at getting info out of people. And, I am pretty determined and stubborn. No, I have no background in law and order. But, I married a soldier. Does that count? Also, I am very good at blending in. Well, except for the hair. The hair stands out.

As far as I know, there is no detective agency in this town. Or even a need for one. Obviously, they just call in the pretty amazon blond from the big city to swoop in on the tails of her trench coat. But, I am an army wife. We will move someday. I will end up in a big city again... someday. And, when that happens, watch me. You just watch me. Maybe I will even start up my own agency. Watch for me.

I'll call it "3.14159265".

WWJMD?

No. No, I have NOT completed the Ten Day Turnaround. I have not even started it. I know. I KNOW. I said I would. A week ago. I KNOW. It got busy around here. Lots of work. No time. And, yes, I know that the whole point of the Ten Day Turnaround is to help people, like me, to find the time to get the house organized and in a position to keep it relatively clean. Relative to a crack house, anyway. So, really, the fact that I have not even started the Ten Day Turnaround yet is proof that I am the very person who NEEDS it.

I've been trying to think up a way to motivate myself. Some way to get moving. Inspiration. Yes, a clean house would be nice. That's not the point. I need some way to make it just a bit more FUN.

I considered putting all one hundred cleaning items on individual papers and pulling each one randomly out of a bowl. But, then I realized how long it would take to write them all down. Scratch that.

I also thought that it might be fun to time myself. Each task would have a twenty minute time limit, or something like that. But, that stressed me out. Because ten items for twenty minutes each would be more than 3 hours. Right? Did I do the math right? Whatever. It's still a stressful amount of time.

It even crossed my mind to dress up like a crazy old cleaning lady, complete with warts on my nose. I could walk around the house mumbling and cursing about the dirty slobs I work for. But, that would involve shopping for a costume. I'm far too cheap for that. Although, I may keep my eyes open at yard sales this summer.

So, as I was discussing Charlie's Angels with a co-worker this week (because what ELSE would I talk about?), I thought of something. I just need to ask myself WWJMD? What would Jill Munroe do?

She'd get her hair done. Duh. Hair like that doesn't just HAPPEN. So am I. Getting my hair done. On Thursday. I'm getting a Farrah Fawcett haircut. I'm SO excited. I haven't had layered hair that I can feather since.....well, since it was in style a few decades ago. It looked really bad on an eight year old, though. It will look AWESOME now.


Jill Munroe would also call her Angels, of course. So, that's what I am doing now. Calling all my angels.

The original plan was to do the list on my own. I told the rest of the family not to worry about it. I would handle it. Why? I don't know. Temporary insanity. I'm far too busy to do a list like that on my own. Not when the monsters walk behind me dropping cereal and dog hair and dirty clothes onto any surface I clean.

So, I've called in MY angels. My kids, husband, pets. Whoever.

It's all about delegating, peeps. Delegating.
I'll keep you updated. I promise. I work a lot less this week.

Calgon, Get Me Out of Here

Do they even have a name for the sound a bunch of giggling teenage girls at a slumber party make? It's not quite a squeal. Not quite a scream. Well...sometimes a scream. Whatever it is, it's loud. And a little annoying. But, it was Big Brat's 13th birthday party. Whatever.

They were pretty good. The only rules I had for them were 1) Don't break my house, 2) Don't feed the pets anything (I don't need more vet bills from food allergies), 3) Don't go upstairs (that's where I was), and 4) Don't wake me up. I threw in a 'no giggling' rule, but that just seemed to make them giggle more.

I was only woken up once. They were jumping around. At about 2 AM. I don't know why. The rest of the time they talked and ate and channelled ghosts. Usual slumber party crap. I came downstairs at one point to get the cat and they all shut up and gave me a deer-in-headlights look. They asked if I heard what they were talking about, so I said 'No, I'll just check the hidden tape recorder tomorrow.'

More damn giggling, of course.

It wasn't too hard getting rid of them the next day. A few had a ringette game to go to. There's nothing worse than sleepover guests that stay until dinner. Or stay FOR dinner.

The parental hand offs went fairly smoothly. I HATE that part. Both when other kids are dropped at our house, or when I have to drop mine off somewhere. My husband hates it, too. We fight over who's turn it is to walk them to the door or pick them up. Why? I don't know. Are we anti-social? A little, yes. I think it's just awkward. Either they leave you standing in a back doorway with nobody to talk to, or one of them stays there and tries to make small talk. Or worse.....when they invite you in and it's up to you to coral your kid up WHILE they make small talk. Very, very awkward. I handled all the parents this time, though, so he owes me. Big.

Overall, not bad. Now I just have to get the place clean. Again. I am restarting my Ten Day Turnaround list again today. I have to do ten easy ones, though, because I hurt my hand. Nothing dramatic, it was opening a bottle of water. Old injury flared to life again. After the cleaning is done, and assuming I don't get called into work, I plan to soak my sore hand in hot water. In the tub. Watching a movie. Ya, I know you're jealous. You'll get over it.