Stumbling Towards Perfect

We recently had an election in our county. Now, being that I work in a governmental setting and see the politics that go on around me, I make it a strict rule to never talk about politics, never mention politics, never bring up the name of a politician, and never become one. There are just too many factors at work to believe that a singular human being can change the system. That being said, I also refuse to have those stupid politician signs littering my lawn - with the one and only exception of a kid I went to school with because he asks so nicely. Also, because we called him the nickname of a type of fish and I feel like I owe him some respect as an adult. Anyway. I turned down my street and as my house came into view I realized I was the new owner of a sizable Those Signs and the partner of a very proud Big V.  "Did you see the sign?" he beamed. I stared at him. It was hard to miss it, that's for sure. Why do we have that sign in our yard? "Wel

Research shows that couples who remodel a home together are 68% more likely to wind up murdered. Most likely due to the fact that the logical, cost-savings balanced with aesthetic appeal wife murders her idiot spouse that wants to demo the entire home and start from scratch. Hello! That's called  new construction . And we can't afford the amount of wine that project would require. In other news, my 10-year old daughter apparently qualified for the state peddle tractor pulls that will be held on the 15th of next month. Three hours away . We're one step away from being Honey Boo Boo's neighbor. Which means we won't have to keep having these discussions about remodeling that end in stabbings.

Text From Teen : You know what song I'm obsessed with that you probably know cause its from back in the day? Me : We Built This City by Starship? Text From Teen : Nope. You Make My Dreams Come True by Hall and Oates! Me : Oh. Text From Teen : My new obsession? You can bet your a$$ they are! ************************ Text From Teen : Your boyfriend is here at the beach. He can be so embarrassing sometimes. Disclaimer: this guy is NOT my boyfriend. ************************ Text From Teen : Did you know at least 14 people get raped by dolphins each year? Me : Can't you just say Hi Mom! I Love You! like normal kids? Text From Teen : It's real mom. It's very real. ************************

... I'd come home from work and the hidden bag of Butterfingers would still be in the back of the fridge behind the tub of Crisco and jar of pickled beets, and I would eat three of them (because they're the mini sized candy bars) and I wouldn't start crying because all I see are empty bright yellow wrappers strewn about my house. ... it would be impossible to ever find toenail clippings on the end table by the remote control because who does that?! ... all containers of Kool-aid would be filled with the proper powder to water ratio described in the directions and no one would ever pour themselves a tall glass of colored blah. ... toilet paper would find its way to the handy-dandy toilet paper dispenser and not sit on the side of the bathroom counter soaking up splashed water. ... I'd watch television for longer than 3.4 second bursts of time because my brain capacity can handle character dialogue. ... I would never empty my vacuum cleaner canister to discover 

But a heart can't be helped and it gathers regret Someday you'll wake up, and feel a great pain And you'll miss every toy you've ever owned In a karmic twist of fate, I celebrated my 39th birthday the same day my 66-year old Uncle David was laid to rest. Well, not exactly the same calendar date, but due to an international time zone, both events were held during the same time in space. I spent the weekend thinking about mortality and about how someone would sum up my life: " She complained about money quite a bit... and never did seem to catch up on all that laundry ." I thought about how I haven't done any of the things I said I was going to do way back in high school. I thought about how many times I had made a decision and then life got in the way and decided things for me. You'll want to go back You wish you were small Nothing will console your crying And my dad and I sat in his kitchen until way past my bedtime talking abo

My ten year old daughter (who I lovingly refer to on this blog as Dotter, which is actually Swedish for 'daughter' - clever, ain't I?) is somewhat, how shall I say, riddled with anxiety to the point she's probably going to have a nervous breakdown in less than a year, or a heart attack, but probably both. Case in point: she just called me sobbing because she misses me. She's camping this weekend with her father. They haven't left yet. What if there's a storm? What if there's a tornado? What if she misses me? What if there's no phone service and she can't call me to tell me she misses me? I told her to write down on a piece of paper what she would have said to me. And then write down what she thinks I would have said back. But what if there's no paper? Or pens? Or if there are pens what happens if they run out of ink? Oy. My head hurts just thinking about it. So, here's where I confess that I hope there isn't any ph

As with any exhausted mother of an incredibly spirited toddler (read: holy f-ing god this child will not quit moving ), I signed Cletus up for gymnastics class. Parents & Tots gymnastics class, if we're being specific. Now, my number one rule of parenting is "don't sign the kid up for anything where I'm required to perform physically." Well, no, actually that's not true. My number one rule is "don't let the kid sleep with anything that might potentially strangle him in his sleep; especially a pull toy" (thanks to my mother who watched a movie where that happened and forever traumatized me with the details). My number two rule is "don't sign the kid up for anything where I'm required to perform physically." Except this kid will. not. quit. moving . The two sweet girls I birthed before him sat nicely. And played quietly. And never ventured to far (or too high) away from me. The boy runs along the back of the couch, sw