November 25, 2013
In other News You Care About, Dawn needs to send me an email sandi[at]themrs.ca because she's getting one of these:
Hooray for random comments about corsets!
Someday I'll be normal, I promise.
November 20, 2013
It's the kind of gong show where I post whenever I want because because.
Also: I did TOO write this week. I just happened to write over at Rebecca's. So there.
Housekeeping: I don't respond to comments until days later because...because (sounds like a theme). Please keep saying things at me. It makes me feel less like a hermit who lives with other people and interacts with humans on a daily basis but still feels the hermit title is valid because sometimes she feels alone inside her brain where all the funny stuff lives and appreciates when other people get the joke even if it is only about Rafflecopter I'm looking at you Kristen.
Sorry if this is your first time here but I swear
Posted by The Mrs at 1:15 PM
November 13, 2013
Consider this extra post my little gift to you from a week that keeps on giving (...Lucy, Oscar, and me the flu, plus a report deadline that is kicking my ass in the teeth...or something.)
My dear friend Lindsay - you might have heard of her? I mention her a lot, and used to have an ad for Inklings Paperie on the sidebar until the ad servicing company stopped being free, like jerks. My laziness/unholy amount of work has prevented me from replacing it on my own, among seventy billion other pieces of Blog Maintenance I Haven't Done.
You might remember her shower games and gender reveal scratch-offs from this post, or her sweet scratch-off lunch box notes from this post, and today - on this thoroughly unremarkable Wednesday - she's got something else to show you.
She's submitting an entry into uncommongoods.com's "Dream Big. Start Small." contest...and it's adorable. Look! A baby!
Correction: She's not submitting a baby to the contest. That would be wrong.
It's the onesie design she's submitting, and - as is the case with ALL ONLINE CONTESTS EVAH, she needs some votes. Just votes, nothing fancy.
Iffen you vote (that's the flu drugs talking), you will have chance to get
And, because I love to making things into "entice more people to find The Mrs and I'll buy you with prizes" contests, I'm abandoning the ubiquitous Rafflecopter entries. Which means if you want to vote, and want to be entered to win the Wishes for Baby set - which is oh, so cute! - you need to leave a comment on The Mrs Facebook page about anything, really. Doctor Who. Bananas. Homemade corsets. Ponies. I don't care. In fact, the more ridiculous the better, even though I'm selecting a winner at random, because THIS LADY NEEDS A LAUGH. (Points at herself.)
Voting is here, and runs today until midnight on November 19th. Go forth!
(portentous voice) I shall announce the winner next Wednesday.
Posted by The Mrs at 1:39 PM
November 11, 2013
One one of these things is true.
(I'm glad to have him back. I kinda like him.)
November 4, 2013
And - before you can yell "No, don't!" or tackle them before they can turn the handle, they've opened the door into the cat room, and have been assaulted by a smell so foul it has to be written as A Smell?
Just me then?
Well, as it happens judgy-pants, I don't have a room like that anymore, so stop making that face. And - to make this as embarrassing as possible - the REASON I don't have a room like that anymore is because my mom and dad came over one day and told us we were cleaning it up and then proceeded to help us clean it up. Or we helped them clean it up. One of those two things.
Now we have a whole extra room. We de-toyed the living room and threw the kids in there for all of September. We walked into the house from the backyard...through the door!
And now, since it used to be a welder's shop and is therefore, of course*, uninsulated, the kids can't go in there unless they have hats and coats and gloves and slippers on, which is The Crappiest Thing Ever since wrestlingthreekidsintowinterclothesjfdkjawep;aoienffalasdk!!!!
So subtract two cats, add one room, and then - just as I've come to rely on the peace that comes from adding an extra twenty feet and a door between the kids when they're extra full of energy and toys and fighting - subtract the room.
KAPOW! Seasonal Affected By Not Having An Extra Playroom Wah Poor Me Disorder.
*"of course", in this sense, meaning: I have no other excuse to offer for anyone who would add an extra hundred square feet to a house and neglect to even pretend to insulate it. Like, at all.
Hey, remember when I used to blog two years ago? Me neither. Here's a random post from back then: A Day In The Life of 2012
October 28, 2013
Next thing you know I'm going to be eating acai berries, or doing a cleanse, or [shudder] becoming a vegetarian.
The fact of the matter is this: a handful of spinach and some cut up vegetables (and - peering - some nachos? And candied nuts?) is easier to throw together than anything else I can find on a regular basis. And - since I'm gifted at using salad as a garbage disposal for all manner of other foods - it's much easier to remember to throw a box of spinach leaves into the grocery cart while all three kids dance and yell and jump around like lunatics around me than it is to actually plan lunches.
Lunches for me, that is. For the kids? I go all out.
October 21, 2013
Are you ready for it?
I am extraordinarily skilled at not cleaning before the housecleaner comes.
Amaze-balls, I'm sure.
Okay, for real now, I do pick things up off of the floor, but I don't sweep the floor. I put the tubby toys away, but I don't even think about the gritty ring of grit staring unblinkingly (because of the grit) at me from the inside of the bathtub.
Do you know what this skill of mine has done for me? It's created time out of thin air.
Just having a housecleaner creates time for stuff like this to happen:
Um. It seems that my involvement in Saturday Afternoon Science was limited to photographic evidence keeper, but I had a very important job that my not cleaning skills gave me the time to do: Keep Lucy Out Of It By Playing Silly Games With Her.
Turns out I have two amazing skills.Tremble in awe, mere mortals.
October 7, 2013
The little white and brown bunny that my mom gave Lucy as a baby. The bunny that she's been curling her wee baby body around as soon as she knew how to.
The bunny that's been everywhere. That's necessary. That - when she can't find it - gets shouted for imperiously as she wanders through the house looking for it.
The bunny that's been stuffed in shopping carts, left in cars, and clutched in the stroller on the way to the park.
The bunny that's been chewed on, sucked on, and dragged around so much that it's grey. And - frankly - smelly.
Correction: these bunnies.
You're welcome for pre-emptively averting a Lost Bunny Crisis of epic - EPIC - proportions.
October 1, 2013
This is one of those things: Free Our Kids DIY Superhero Capes. I haz them.
T-shirt met scissors met markers. Neck hole stays, everything else except the back (or front, depending) of the shirt goes. Despite Norah's disappointment that I can't draw Firestar for real and had to resort to a somewhat fiery F (it's like she doesn't even know me at all), these have been in constant use since July. Oscar sleeps with his beside him.
And never fear, Lucy the Insistent has one too:
p.s. As the Facebook gang already knows, I updated my About Page. It's thorough, accurate, and sensible.
September 23, 2013
Despite my curmudgeonly ways, I never thought my life would look like this. Guys: people pay me to dig through their statements and tell them what's what. I've been quoted in every national newspaper and one national personal finance magazine. (Uh, this is Canada. There's only one.)
I have a housecleaner. I work from home, and - as of the time of this writing - am only hours away from leaving said home for the weekend (alone) to attend a conference full of journalists and financial planners and personal finance bloggers.
Let me repeat the relevant part: blah blah blah alone blah blah somethingaboutmoney blah blah blah. I'm going to slip the surly bonds of responsibility and will be able to eat when I want. Stop for coffee if I want. Ride the subway. Read a book. Talk about money without being interruppted. Learn how to spell interrupted without being interuppted....oh, so many magical things!
And then, just as the guilt really sets in over leaving Seth alone with two and a half children* for the weekend, I'll come in on Sunday night, throw a bunch more stuff in the van, and leave again on Monday morning for a ten hour drive to Pennsylvania, during which trip my parents will be stopping by the house unexpectedly and often, so don't try anything funny.
My only regret is that I'll miss the bulk of Chinese Tourists Taking Pictures of my House Season, and - alas - won't be able to follow Dawn's suggestion and ask them what the deal is.**
*Mom's taking Lucy for a day and a half, so maybe that should be "two and a quarter children". What do I know? I'm bad at children division and offspring fractions are beyond me.
**Like I ever would anyway. Don't you know me at all?
September 16, 2013
My default response to the doorbell or the phone is "what do you want now?", I'm unforgiving, impatient, and very impressed with myself
Except when I'm not.
I was going to write "the other half of the time I'm somethingsomethingsomething", except long years of curmudgeonly navel gazing has determined that that's patently absurd. It's not "the other half of the time". It's at the exact same time.
At the exact same time, I'm full to bursting with the will to forgive anything, to assume the best intentions, to see past moods and value people. I'm comfortable talking to strangers, and can wait patiently for my daughter to ask me something even though I already know the answer (and it is no).
At the exact same time, "I don't know" comes out of my mouth pretty easily, I can list every one of my many (legion, even) weaknesses of character in excruciating detail, and have a pretty easily quelled but existent nonetheless desire to hug everyone tightly and not let go for an uncomfortable amount of time.
My years of being a curmudgeon have set my face into grumpy lines. For years (1984-2008), my default facial expression was "pissed off" and now - even when I'm thinking about unicorns covered in Nutella - I look like I'm about to stab someone unless I make a conscious effort to make my face match my thoughts.
For a long time I thought that my I hate you/I love you attitude was sure proof of a mental disorder. Then I realized that people are messy, and I - believe it or not - am people. And therefore, messy.
I know that the me who loves people and forgives them their trespasses is winning. I also know that I can stop wringing my hands over being a curmudgeon. It's okay to dislike crowds, and disorganization, and stupidity. The world is broken. I'm broken. Fortunately, I'm not the one who as to figure out how to fix it or me.
My ideal me is still a curmudgeon, just a redeemed one.
September 9, 2013
This is good, because I still like to eat good food. Everybody wins.
In completely unrelated news, guess what season it is in Muskoka?
Need a hint?
Yup. It's strangers lining up taking pictures of my house and very often standing on the front porch to do it season. My favourite time of year.
I was genuinely excited when I saw this bus, because it's started early this year. I wasn't expecting them for at least another month. Nothing gives me quite the same bubbly, thrilly feeling in my stomach than watching flocks of tourist wander onto my lawn and pose awkwardly for picture. YAY!
Fortunately, I no longer have a slab of plywood for a front door. Instead, and no thanks to two of these three people, it is wildly, gloriously red.
I've been known to stand across the street admiring it.
And you wonder why my neighbours love me so much...
September 2, 2013
But she was young (-er than me, anyway). She was part of a group of friends that obviously hadn't seen each other for a while, and they were having what seemed to be a much-needed Vent and Visit while their kids were playing.
The fact that her daughter had teamed up with some other little dude and has zeroed in on the singular goal of chasing my kids out of the park with kicks and slaps and cruel words wasn't her immediate fault, although that behaviour had to have been practiced with dedication for it to have been perfected to such a degree.
And she was horrified that it happened, although I didn't stick around after the stair-pushing incident to find out if she thought I was some crazy over-protective Crazy Parent once she had time to talk to her friends about it.
So no angry "Dear Mother Who..." letter. Instead...
Dear Little Shit in the park,
That look on your face, when you were eyeballing me over your mother's shoulder? I know that look.
You're a little shit.
Cut it out.
A Mother Who Doesn't Like Watching Her Kids Get Pushed Down The Stairs.
August 26, 2013
My daughter has lice. I think I have lice. I'm pretty sure my shag rug has lice. This is my very first time doing this, so I trust you as a respected representative of the medical establishment to dispense the most effective product with the clearest instructions.
Use Nix. Comb or pick out all of the nits (the lice will be dead) with this helpfully included lice comb. Wash all of the bedding and dry on the hot setting for at least fifteen minutes. Pack up in plastic bags anything that isn't washable and don't take them out for two weeks. Vacuum the mattresses. Repeat the Nix after seven days.
In two weeks, you and your family will be lice free. Congratulations, and you're welcome.
Your Local Pharmacist
Dear Local Pharmacist,
Um. Are you sure about all that? We just did everything you said, and I'm still finding live lice two weeks later. Lots of them.
No, really. Use Nix. Did you do all of the things on the list? You probably didn't comb out every single nit, and one was left and it started a whole new colony of lice, or else maybe someone came over to your house and re-infested it. Do it again, and be more careful this time.
Hey, you in the white coat:
I'm not stupid. Admittedly, I have one functioning eyeball and the other one has cataracts, but I'm doing all the things, and everyone in my house has lice now. I'm afraid to talk to anyone on the phone, for fear that the lice are going to transmit themselves out of here and my family will be responsible for ALL OF THE LICE.
I just rinsed out a second round of Nix from my daughter's hair, and the lice are still very much alive. In fact, I think I can hear them laughing uproariously in their tiny little lice voices every time I show them this:
So unless you're going to come over here and pick every nit off of every strand of my five year old's head, Superman, don't tell me I'm doing it wrong.
Mayonnaise. LiceMD, Natroba, You're doing it wrong, Nix, Error 404 Not Found, Crazy mother and olive oil, combing out every nit is impossible, Lindane, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE NOT LINDANE, You must be a horrible mother who doesn't care about the safety of other children, Pictures of lice (better than pictures of dust mites), Why won't anyone think of the children, Lice can develop immunity to treatment, Peanut butter, Here's a Slate article that actually makes sense.
With Love and Affection,
Dear Metal Lice Comb,
This is a little hard to say, since I'm a staunch member of the Ironic Generation, but I love you. I took this picture of you when you were looking the other way.
The way the light gleams off of your shiny teeth is mesmerizing, and I have deep respect for the authoritative way you comb out nits and lice like you're The Boss of Hair or something.
Some advice to add to the maelstrom: by all means, try the lice treatment, but throw away the plastic comb. Get thee a metal comb, and comb, comb, comb every morning and every night. You won't know if it was the treatment or the combing, and (believe me) you won't care.
p.s. The other parents are just as helpless as you.
The Great Lice Outbreak of 2013 is mostly over, but it threatened most ominously to turn me into a crazy woman.
August 19, 2013
TWO: Our twelfth anniversary was yesterday. We remembered at around four o'clock, while I was outside with the kids and Seth was making meatball sandwiches for supper, and celebrated later with ice cream and an episode of Dr. Who. Fortunately, the quality of a marriage isn't determined by the quality of its annual celebration.*
THREE: My parents took Norah to Manitoulin Island with them this weekend, and here's her list of things to pack. (Note that she included "Grammy" and "Poppa" in her list. Thorough, is my girl.)
FOUR: Housecleaner. Friday.**
FIVE: Lucy, who at a year and a half still doesn't have much to say, fake burps at the table and then laughs like an idiot.
SIX: My front door looks like this.
"Awesome how?" you say? Awesome in that the plywood is only there so random vagrants don't wander into my home to watch David Tennant make angry muppet faces while our real front door is in the shop, getting painted glossy red. Glossy, glossy red.
SEVEN: Also I am awesome at photography.
EIGHT: Seth has been offered a job. Repeatedly. At first we were like "no, way", then we were like "how much, you say?" then we were like "where does he sign?". It means that his time will be less flexible, his piece of garbage truck can be sent to the scrapyard where it belongs, and I won't have to feel guilty about not doing his books when I'm not doing his books. Two out of three ain't too shabby.
NINE: I spent my hard-earned money on a laptop (a cheap one, don't get all carried away), which means that - since the siren song of the couch still lures me as I stumble downstairs at five in the morning - I'm writing this (and all of my other Great Work) wrapped in a blanket and partially reclining.
TEN: I fell down the stairs and broke the baby gate at the bottom. That wasn't awesome, but the fact that I'm the only person to have done it*** is.
ELEVEN: Football season is here, and we're so excited that we re-attached the cable to the television box. Joy and unicorns and such. Not awesome is the fact that - because I'm a sober, responsible adult - I left my fantasy football league this year. Sad face.
TWELVE: Did I mention the housecleaner?
THIRTEEN: Food. The end.****
**Which is not to say that I've Made It, except in the sense that I've made it to the point where I can choose between having any two of clients and/or a clean house and/or non-feral children.
****When, in all these years, have you known me to actually finish a list? Never, that's when.*****
*****Does anybody else think that the number of stars is getting ridiculous?
August 12, 2013
I'd like to drive a car without crumbs on the floor, or without a dent in the front bumper (it's a total mystery how that happened, but my money's on very lumpy air), but fancy? Meh.
Do I want a bigger house? Maybe if it was on a lake. I can't deny that would be cool, until Lucy realized there was water nearby, and walked straight in until it was over her head.
That wouldn't be cool.
No, fancy cars, big houses, la-de-dah clothes, these aren't the things I yearn for, and won't be the signal (to myself) that we've Made It.
What will be the signal that I've arrived?
When the cleaning lady does.
***AMY! YOU WON LUNCHBOX NOTES!***
August 5, 2013
When I whine about it to my mother, or the lady at the grocery store, or strangers on the street, I hear this: "Well, at least Norah will be in school soon."
Norah in school means the return of the forty-five minute hobbit walk to school and back. Twice a day. Every day.
Back to school means rushing to get naps done before it's time to run out the door to go get The One Who Will No Longer Nap. And - worst of all - back to school means lunches that have to be prepared more than five minutes before eating.
To compensate for my inability in the lunch-packing department (remember this?), I'm getting these:
These are scratch off notes that you write yourself and tuck into your sweet little girl's lunchbox.
That you write yourself.
They're from the brain of my dear friend Lindsay of Inklings Paperie. I love her stuff, but when she showed these to me I kind of squealed. (Uh, kind of a lot.)
I want them, and I want you to have them so we can all squeal together.
Now, we all know I'm not an obedient blogger, with the giveaways that I don't really do well, and the link-parties that I don't really do at all, and the other stuff that I don't even know I should be doing but definitely am not doing anyway, but this here? This I want to do well. I want everyone you know to know about these Lunchbox Notes.
So: because I want you to have these, AND I want the entire continent to know about them, the only way you can get them is to tell everyone you know about them.
Share this link to the Lunchbox Notes on Facebook and you're entered to win a set. That's all. You can share it every day until next Monday for more entries, because I'm nice like that, and on Tuesday I'll announce the winner.
Also: don't cheat. I hate that.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
July 29, 2013
I get up at five to work until six-thirty. I run around after the kids, clean up breakfast and do housewifely type things until nine-thirty, when I get another hour while Lucy naps and The Other Two watch an episode or three of Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends or Spider-Man (Just Spider-Man) from 1983.
We usually head outside after that, and I bring my phone because Work , and often end up emailing or Twittering or catching up on the eleventy-billion finance blogs I read, and the one Lannis. (Which should explain why I comment on her excellent posts so sporadically and - let's face it - spastically.)
They're all in bed napping by twelve-thirty, which means most of my client calls are scheduled for one o'clock (to make sure Oscar has gotten out of bed all nineteen times and finally gone to sleep). Norah's big enough to understand and actually follow the "if you wake up and the gate downstairs is still closed, play quietly in your room until I come get you" rule. Oscar does not, and Lucy? Ha! I laugh at your naïveté!
If I don't have a client call, I get about an hour and a half - two, if I'm lucky - to get more work done before they all troop downstairs in search of a snack. (And a drink and a "watch something"). They usually get another half hour or so of tv while I rush madly to finish up whatever analysis or report I'm working on.
Afternoons usually happen outside, or at the grocery store if it's a really busy day, and they're also when dinner has to be prepped (or at least cursorily thought of and then forgotten about), laundry has to be washed and dried and folded and put away, or something. (One out of four is still a passing grade, right?)
Lets not even talk about the state of my floors, or fridge, or closets, or basement. Lets definitely Not Talk about my bathrooms. The caulking is supposed to be pink, alright?
And then there's the eating of supper, the cleaning up of supper, the brushing of teeth, the cleaning up of toys, the reading of stories, the singing of songs, and the puttings of Oscar to bed twelve more times with varying levels of annoyance and frustration, after which I can usually fit in another hour or two of work before finally sitting down on the couch for an hour and then trudging up to bed.
Not every day is that bad, really. We go to the park, or the other park. We get spontaneous ice cream, and go on kid dates that always manage to involve candy somehow. We have impromptu dance parties in the upstairs bathroom and birthday parties not in the upstairs bathroom. We have movie suppers in the living room that usually end in pyjamas snuggled up on the couch.
Only the days that are bad lie to me, and whisper slyly that every day is like this, and you're a horrible, impatient parent, and you make your kids feel like they're in the way instead of loved.
And so - in my frustration with myself, my full days, the newness of this life of working at home, the fact that all is not glitter and unicorns and bottomless tubs of Nutella, I yell.
I yell at Norah to stop picking Lucy up when she doesn't want to be picked up. I yell at Lucy to quit splashing her hands in the toilet bowl. I yell at Oscar to stop whatever thing it is he's not stopping. I yell at Seth because in his effort to help me filter the frying oil into a Mason jar so it can be reused, he spills it all over - All. Over. - the counter.
I yell, or I get angry and pouty, and they get grumpier, or even more unruly, or - worst of all - they cry. Um. The kids. Seth doesn't cry. Good golly, imagine? (He's also ruly most of the time.)
I feel horrible. I want to stop yelling. Sometimes I manage to grasp a little perspective and realize that this stress is just temporary, that I'll find a rhythm that works, that if I'd just put my phone down when we're outside the world wouldn't end, that I could read less money news and no one, least of all me, would notice.
I say "I'm sorry" a lot. And then I think about how awesome it would be to never have to say it, but not because "love means never having to say you're sorry," because that's utter bullshit.
Love - the kind I'm interested in, anyway - means saying I'm sorry when I act like a crazed harridan instead of a mother or a wife, all the while trying - with divine help, thankfully, or I'd be in a rotten pickle - to act in a way that won't necessitate apologizing again.
Real love means saying you're sorry and then being better.
So Ali MacGraw can eat it.
July 22, 2013
July 15, 2013
The problem with writing a DITL post as a mildly honest person is that you don't want to write about a great day, because then you'd have to explain that every day isn't great and I'm not being a Pinterest Mom, I promise.
But then, you don't really want to write about the day after someone in the house got a vasectomy, because A, he probably doesn't want the whole internet to know about it, and B, you were pretty testy what with the husband flat on his back and the children trying to climb on him and the melting eyeball temperatures and the fact that you planned your daughter's fifth birthday party for the same day and there might have been a little bit of yelling when your son got out of bed thirteen times and ended up staying up an hour past his bedtime when all you wanted to do was sit down and drink a (large, cold) gin and tonic.
So not that day.
You think you could possibly write about the day your first paid writing gig got published (because that other time, the time with the marble post, when BlogHer emailed you and said they wanted to syndicate it and pay you fifty bucks for it? That was Leslie's post. But you weren't bitter or anything), but that was the same day that someone got a vasectomy, and you got so many emails from various people who read the post and were thinking about hiring you, and the one phone call you actually took live because the kids were occupied came at the exact same time that the hospital was trying to phone you that someone just got into the recovery room and you can come and pick him up anytime and that same someone ended up waiting alone at the hospital for an extra twenty minutes to be picked up and you realized that you were a horrible, horrible wife.
The rest of that day's details leaked out of your ears. Plus, it kind of sounds braggy and awful at the same time, which means it's out of contention.
Instead, exhausted, and with real work to do but a still-burning desire to write something Not About Money, you write a post about why you can't write a post, and then you put up a picture of your daughter playing in the sprinkler.
Just this once, everybody lives!*
*And now you know my favourite Dr. Who episode.
July 8, 2013
Aside: now that I'm not pregnant anymore, I'm swinging the old "sneaking downstairs to write at 5am and hoping like hell that the kids don't wake up" cat around again, since I don't have any other cats to swing around.
It's working approximately as well as it did the last time
She saw this in my Twitter feed (My professional one, that is. I'm not convinced that The Mrs has anything to add that Sandi "The Professional" doesn't already say..heh heh.), and she asked me what it was.*
"Egypt at night." says I, "See all the pretty lights?"
"Can we go there?" she asks.
"Mm, not now. It's pretty dangerous there right now."
"The people who live there are fighting with their government, and the government there is fighting with it's people."
"Oh." She points to the smaller pool of light to the right of Egypt. "Can we go there?"
"Weeeell, that's Israel. It's pretty dangerous too."
She points back to Egypt. "Can we go there when they stop fighting?"
"Sure we can. It might take a long time, though."
"Oh. We'll have to check it every day."
That's what I think too.
*I'm warning you, I'm done with caring about making punctuation play nicely. From now on, "fall where you may" is my punctuational motto.
July 1, 2013
Okay, not so much. Whatever.
She's finished junior kindergarten - although her little friends have convinced her that she was in senior kindergarten this whole past year - and is now poised to enter fifth grade in September.
Anything that she finds extraordinary is One Hundred and Eighty-Nine, as in "I'm one hundred and eighty-nine happy", or "that cookie was one hundred and eighty-nine good". Rarely does she use it as an actual number.
She is simultaneously infuriating and hilarious. She'll say things like "I know how to spell princess. It's w w w dot c a t", and then ten seconds later flip out because you didn't guess exactly how she wanted to be tucked into bed.
If you ask her to tell you a joke, she'll say "A zebra is inside of a monkey", and laugh uproariously.
She still holds my hand when we walk together.
I'm taking gleeful advantage of it.
So is Lucy.
She's ridiculously easy to delight, and when you do - by sitting down to colour with her, or by telling her that you're having cereal for supper (hardly ever, stopdialingCASplease), her whole face lights up. Her eyes get so wide when she's truly excited, like when she declares: "I have two loose teeth, TWO of them!"
|"I'm sorry for pushing you off the couch 3 days ago"|
Also: she has a hard time getting along with Oscar, but it's okay, because she can write him cards of apology.
June 24, 2013
I thought lice was wiped out, like smallpox. Or polio. Stupid Louis Pasteur with your stupid vaccines or some such nonsense and you couldn't even cure lice?! I mean, honestly.
Fortunately, there is such a thing as a You Tube machine, and such a thing as original episodes of Strawberry Shortcake on said You Tube machine.
I however, have seen all of the episodes.
(This is not how I envisioned spending romantic evenings with my husband. Let us never speak of this again.)
(This is not how I envisioned spending romantic evenings with my husband. Let us never speak of this again.)
June 21, 2013
When I twitter (as my professional self) the nonsense bubbles to the surface more than occasionally, and - unsurprisingly - it confuses people. Heck, it confuses me fifteen sixteenths of the time.
And so, I find myself back here.
What, you object to me swanning back in here as if I owned the place, and starting back up again as if I'd never left? But you see, I like swanning. It suits my gangly, unco-ordinated nature.
Here's my concession: an update on the last six months, if you will. It's going to be very thorough, so hold on to your hats.
These two are slowly growing into themselves, and
This one can fly. It's pretty convenient.
Here at The Mrs, I can write all the nonsense I want, because the only people who still get posts in their feed reader or inbox are either A) devoted friends, B) people who are too lazy to delete empty feeds, or C) lovers of nonsense.
It's a win for everyone.