Confessions of a Book Hoarder

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Have you ever been into a house where there are no bookshelves? Not a book to be seen just a couple of magazines and maybe a cookbook. Am I the only one who thinks this is weird? I’m not saying that I expect people to be like me. I have 5 or 6 bookshelves in my house and they are all crammed with books. I also tend to have books stacked on my nightstand, desk and coffee table. I realize this is not the norm, but seriously, not a single book anywhere?

I don’t trust people who don’t have books. They are obviously trying to hide something horrible about themselves. I watch police dramas and I know the police always scan the bookshelves of both the victim and the perp because it tells them something about the person. In the victim’s house they usually find a lot of self-help or poetry books and in the perp’s house they find books on committing the perfect murder or building a bomb. My point is even murderers and terrorists have books in their house so what the fuck is someone who has no books trying to hide? Well, we know it is worse than murder or terrorism.

Here’s the other thing, not having books tells me a lot about you as well. If you are a parent and you don’t have a single parenting book it is obvious that you have robot children who are programmed to behave perfectly, thus never requiring you to purchase a parenting book to explain why the fuck your kids are acting like THAT. If you don’t have a single self-help book I will assume that YOU are the robot because as humans we are not okay with ourselves. Seriously, what human has ever been like, “I am perfect the way I am. There is not a single thing I need to change about me.”  Even if we are that okay with ourselves as humans we realize that it is not okay to be okay with ourselves so we will buy a self-help book to figure out why we are so okay with ourselves. At the very least we will get a random self-help book to throw on the coffee table so that no one else will know that we are okay with ourselves.

This is a stock photo and not from my actual bookshelf. But I do own more than 3 of these books…

Also normal people have diet books. Skinny normal people have diet books to say “I look fabulous, but I work hard at it.” Fat normal people have diet books to say “Hey, I’m trying.” People buy coffee table books to let their guests know something about them. Do you think that anyone has ever read that 300 lb book about golf? NO! It is there to tell people “Hey, I enjoy golf. I can’t afford a golf cart to park in front of my house so I bought this large overpriced book to let you know that I am a fan of the game.”

If the conversation begins to lag all you have to do is look at someone’s coffee table or bookshelf and there will be something there to talk about.  “Hey I see your shelves of full of books about cats and there are also a few books on living with alcoholics. Let’s talk about why your cat is a drunk.” or “Wow, you’re reading Glenn Beck’s book huh? Let’s talk about which nut-house you’d like to be committed to.”

from theyresofluffy.com

I now see why people might choose to hide their books…

I know everyone says that eyes are the windows to the soul, but I honestly believe the same thing can be said about bookshelves. If I come into your house I will look at your books and I will make judgements about you based on what I see. I invite you to do the same in my home. It will not be pretty I promise you… but it will be a damn sight more interesting than talking about the weather.

From my actual shelf . . . but not the guilty pleasure shelf which is full of V.C. Andrews and Julie Garwood paperbacks. This is the shelf people actually see.

Can You Hear Me Now?

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One bad thing about being the goddess mother of two boys is that I don’t think they fully appreciate all of my goddess-like qualities.

Just the other day, I was working away in the kitchen and as usual I was singing. Nothing makes kitchen-work seem easier and go faster than a good beat and catchy lyrics. You would think my little hoodlums would be happy that I was making their dinner and leave it at that, but NO! These ungrateful brats put their hands over their ears and started  yelling, “mo- OM! Stop! We can’t stand it!” on and on until I had to sing quite loudly to cover all the noise they were making.

A less confident person might take the fact that their children are curled up in a fetal position with their hands over their ears as an insult. Not I.  The truth is folks, I have the voice of a freaking angel!  Also, I know why the boys act as if my singing sounds like a cat with its tail caught in the door…there is something horribly wrong with their ears.

It’s true, their poor little ears are completely broken. I have taken the boys in several times to have their ears checked and the doctors tell me they are fine, but I know better. Every time I tell the boys to take out the trash, they look at me as if I am speaking Klingon.  I know I am speaking plain English but it enters their broken ears and gets all messed up.  I say, “Go clean your room.” They hear, “Go lie on your bed and read comic books.”

My hope is that as they grow their ears will develop and they will not only understand plain English, but they will appreciate my singing voice for the heavenly instrument that it is.  I would try to explain to them that singing makes me happy and after years of me changing their shitty diapers, cooking their food, cleaning up their barf, (those last two items are completely unrelated) driving them to hell and back and losing countless hours of sleep, the least they can do is let me sing without the sound of moaning and groaning in the background. “Sing along or shut up” is my motto.

Sadly I know that any explanation I make will enter their poor broken ears and if their Klingon to English translator misfires I could very well be telling them how to build a bomb in the garage. Instead I open the door and point. After they go outside I lock the door and turn up the music….I should probably let them back in now.

And check the garage for bombs.

 

Seriously folks, the voice of an angel. It can make grown men cry.

 

WTF ODFW?!?

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Today is not a good day at our house. Not at all. For Himself and The Professor this is usually the hap-hap-happiest time of the year. Hunting season is here. Now I am not a hunter and I don’t really get the appeal, but for my husband and eldest it is a special time. They camp in the rain and hike miles through wet brush and more often than not come home empty-handed . . . Sounds glorious, No? The fact is that it provides some pretty special dad/son bonding time and right now that is extremely important. The Professor is almost 15 and on the cusp of Manhood, time with Dad is pretty darn valuable. They are building memories and talking about manly stuff and yes hoping to get a shot off at Bambi.

Wow! That’s a lot of cammo!

We just got our first bit of rain since July and with that the hunting spirit has taken hold of 1/2 our household. They are planning their hunts. Where they are going to go. What weekend they should do a camp. Excitement is in the air. Until Himself asks “Where are your tags?” The Professor runs to his room and brings back the little plastic wallet emblazoned with the words “GUNS & DRUGS” (I shit you not) Himself and The Professor start pulling out the bajillion slips of paper. Spring turkey tag. Fishing license. Salmon and Steelhead tag. Cougar tag. Bird tag. and about 50 other things. Everything it seems is there except the big game tags. (deer, elk, bear) WTF?

We shop here for all our family’s gun & drug needs!

This is when Himself looks at me and asks “Didn’t you get his tags?” Moi? Um I got whatever you told me to get.

Sometime last spring Himself called me from work and asked me to take the professor down and purchase his Sports Pac and put in for “points” I am not going to even try to explain the point thing, because I don’t get it. Evidently there are magic points that you can build up that increase your chance to get to do special hunts and this was the last day to put in for them.

So I took the professor to our local Gun & Drug store (Totally serious) and got his Sports Pac and put in for his points. Since I am not the hunter and totally not into this kind of thing I didn’t realize that even though we PAID for big game tags we did not actually GET the big game tags. Evidently they have to be picked up at a later date. This was overlooked not just by me but by the actual hunters in the household even though they have been perusing a synopsis the last few weeks which is basically the hunter’s bible and it has, in red lettering,

Deer, elk, and bear tags are not automatically issued at the time
Sports Pac license is issued. Hunters must remember to pick up
deer, elk, and bear tags by the day before the earliest hunt opens
for deer, elk, and controlled bear and by Sept. 28 for general bear.

I don’t know why they don’t give you the tags when you pay for them or mail them to you before the season begins. Nope in all their government wisdom they take your money and then expect you to remember to come back for your tags. Right. Because I don’t have hundreds of more important things to remember, like bills that are due and dr.’s appointments to keep and assignments that are due and the fact that we are out of milk, or toilet paper, or wine. . . actually I seem to remember that last one pretty well. But my point is, if you have my money then you should make sure that I have what I paid for!

Himself did not get tags for our area as he went hunting in a different area with his buds this year and since it looks like we are out of luck as far as getting tags for The Professor it looks like there will be no hunting happening from this household. Now if you have ever had to tell your children that Christmas is canceled, or Summer Vacation will not include that planned trip to Disneyland then you pretty much know what if felt like to tell The Professor that we, his parents, messed up and there would be no hunting this year. For those of you who have not had to totally disappoint your children, IT SUCKS.

And yes, I am sure once this initial disappointment wears off we will move on with a plan B and there will be a father/son camping trip planned, just without the hunting. And we have all learned a valuable lesson, check important documents BEFORE they are needed and don’t assume that paying for something is the same as having something. Thanks for the lesson ODFW and enjoy our money that we got nothing for!

UPDATE: Daddy is a hero!!! Today he went down to ODFW in person and since we had already paid for the tags in the spring they went ahead and issued The Professor his tags. We did have to pay a $15.00 fee, but hunting camp is back on which means The Wineness gets her chick flick and wine drinking time back! Ahhhh! Life is good!

Ahoy There, Matey!

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So as I was getting ready to publish a new post this morning I realized that what this blog really needs is a disclaimer as I tend to drop the F-bomb with some frequency. And not just the F-bomb, I am pretty much queen of the language enhancer, so consider this your warning.

Most people who know me are not at all surprised by my potty mouth, nor are they offended by it. Himself does feel the need to bring it to my attention occasionally by asking me “What ship did you arrive on, Sailor?” Now, I have never spent much time around sailors but as I understand it their speech is notoriously “salty” (which makes sense given the fact they spend a great deal of time at sea which is also notoriously salty) So if like me, you are unaware of exactly how sailors talk and you want to know how much colorful language will be in my blog let’s just say that on a scale from Mother Theresa to Gordon Ramsey, sailors fall somewhere in the middle. I believe that they are right above contractors, but below stand-up comics.

One of the things you will not see me do on this blog is fake curse. You know where people put *%#@ I won’t do that because for all I know the word you put in there might be worse than the one I wanted to use. I also will not type sh*t or f*ck because I believe taking out the vowel does not make it less of a curse word and I’m pretty sure when someone sees the word sh*t their mind says shit not sh-asterisk-t. So in my opinion there is no reason to pretend that I am above cursing by omitting a vowel.

I have heard people say that swearing is a sign of an uneducated mind. I don’t agree. I think the reason people use foul language is because it is not legal to run over stupid people with your car.

The other thing I hear (and I hear this a lot) is how unladylike it is to swear. Well you know what? It used to be considered unladylike to wear pants and drink alcohol so before you get all judgey about my potty mouth go slip into your favorite Levi’s pour yourself a big glass of wine and remember that I am not unladylike…I am fucking progressive!

Sometimes life just needs a good curse word.

The Old Ball and Chain Strikes Again

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Yesterday morning Himself and I were sitting and eating breakfast together, which hardly ever happens but before you get some notion that it was a “Leave It To Beaver” moment let me tell you that I was behind my laptop and he was talking at me (yes at, not with) while I worked on some lesson plans for our home-schooled boys. I was saying the required amounts of “uh-huhs” and “that’s interestings” to make it seem like I was engaged. I know you all have done the same thing so don’t judge me.

In the middle of one uh-huh I started thinking “Did he just say he was going to a wedding?” At this point I actually stop multi-tasking and give him my full attention. “What?”

He repeats, “I’m going to a wedding on Saturday.”

Yeah he said exactly what I thought he said. But I still think that this needs clarification.

Me: YOU’RE going to a wedding … as in just you.

Himself: Yes. Daniel gave me an invitation the other day so I am going to go.

Me: And there was no plus one?

Himself: I don’t even know what that means.

Me: It means you get to take someone with you … like your wife. Weddings, funerals, family reunions, these kinds of things married couples usually attend together.

Himself: You WANT to go?

Me: That is not the point. The point is I think it is weird for a married man to go alone to a wedding. It’s just weird.

Himself: Do you even remember Daniel?

Okay granted, I don’t know the kid well, but for me that is totally beside the point. I know who he is and I have met him a couple of times. He is the cousin of my Himself’s best friend. And I know most of his family really well. But even if it was a total stranger I’m pretty sure that most husbands would still take their wife to the wedding instead of going stag.

Me: Yeah, I know who Daniel is. He was at OUR wedding. Remember that day? The day that you pretty much agreed that I was your date for everything for the rest of your life? Remember that? We had a bunch of friends there including Daniel and his family. You were wearing some kind of nice suit, I was wearing a white dress … does this ring any bells? It was kind of big deal.

Himself: Are you asking me if I remember what you wore at our wedding? That is ridiculous and I don’t even know what your point is.

This is not new. He rarely gets my sarcasm. So I have to spell it out for him. “My point is that I am going to the goddamned wedding with you because I have been stuck in this house with 2 kids and I could use an evening out and I would attend Satan’s wedding if it meant free food and cocktails!”

Okay, this conversation may have also included a mention of the girls that were going to be at the wedding and the fact that for some reason girls really enjoy flirting with my husband. So of course Himself is convinced that is the real reason I want to go to wedding and I should trust him and blah, blah, blah. Seriously? You think I am jealous? I am the least jealous person ever. I am totally going for the free food and drinks. Sometimes I think my husband doesn’t know me at all. Phshaw! Me jealous of flirting girls? I would offer his services to the first girl who poured me a glass of wine!

Okay gratuitous wedding pic! Feel free to laugh at the hair. And the light grey tux. And the dress. Well just make it an all-inclusive chuckle and you’re welcome!

Ghost Baby

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Okay, if you ever read the first blog that I started you may have already read this, but I wanted to publish it here for my new readers and also to point out that my “due date” is fast approaching so if any of you lovelies would like to host my “shower” I am registered at the “liquor store.” (okay, that last part totally didn’t need the quotes.)

Ghost Baby

Posted on May 17, 2012 by Lisa

The problem with people today is they have no manners. Nobody has been taught basic people skills and it makes life awkward for the rest of us. It’s not hard people. Read some old Ann Landers columns. Or I don’t know, use your fuckin’ head for something besides a hatrack! If you don’t think before you speak you can create a total shitstorm which will not end well for anyone.

Yeah, I’m talking to you chatty cashier who thinks it was a good idea to ask me when I was due. No biggie right? She’s just making conversation, acting interested in my life and wants to share in the joy of my pregnancy. Here’s the thing, I’m NOT pregnant. Not even a little bit. In fact, I’ve been completely un-pregnant for over 11 years. WTF lady? I admit I am little fluffy around the middle, that does NOT mean I am growing a human! Ever heard of pie, Bitch?

I had just finished putting my mountain of groceries on her conveyor belt when she asked that obscene question and I knew I was going to be there for a good 15 minutes or so. Do I tell her that I’m not pregnant? That is going to make for a very awkward 15 minutes. So I try to do the math in my head. First I have to figure out exactly how pregnant I look and then based on that when my due date would be. So if my muffin-top looks like I’ve been gestating for about  four months that would make me due in… Here’s the thing, math is hard even when you aren’t trying to figure out when your ghost baby will be born and I end up sounding like an underage kid who is buying beer and gets asked for a birthdate. “Ummmm….. October?”

I guess it sounded a little too much like a question because this lady who had the audacity to assume that I am pregnant now has the audacity to look at me all judgey because I sound a little too unsure of my pretend due date. In for a dollar in for a dime so I rub my belly and say “We couldn’t be happier” I nod and smile and I think she bought it because she asked me if I knew if it was a boy or a girl. Crap! more math, am I hypothetically far enough along to know what the sex of the baby is? Oh, wait. I can just say no!

“We want it to be a surprise”

She nods and I rub my belly again. Thank God we are coming to the end of the groceries. She rings up the Coors Light and doesn’t ask for my ID. Evidently I am fat AND old. Yep, feeling pretty good about myself right now which is probably why when she rang up the bottle of Merlot I said,

“Wow, I’m gonna need some of that tonight!”

Crap!  The judgey look is back.

“but obviously I’m not going to have any because I’m pregnant. Duh! It’s for my husband. He likes to chase his Coors Light with a glass of Merlot. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

Then Rude Cashier Lady really blows it by topping off her bad manners with even more bad manners. She neglects to ask me if I want help out with my groceries which is inexcusable as she thinks I am pregnant and possibly drunk, both good reasons for someone to have help out with their groceries!

Thanks for the ego boost lady! Now come October I am going to have to waddle my fat ass back to the garden center to check out so I don’t have to explain why I don’t have an infant…and still have a belly.

Himself is completely unsympathetic. “Maybe if you lay off the pie a bit . . .”

Uh, hello! I’m eating for two!!!

Red In the Face (but completely static free)

Today I am going to tell you about one of my husband’s most embarrassing moments. I have the right to blog about his embarrassment because he blames it all on me.  Can you believe it? I couldn’t either. I know that I am a bit quirky and outspoken and prone to singing in the grocery store . . . in other words AWESOME! So I don’t know how anyone could be embarrassed by anything that I do.

Evidently the way I do laundry has left my husband open to all kinds of embarrassment and ridicule. Did I turn all his undies pink? Did I use female pheromone scented laundry soap? No! Much, much worse! I used a sheet fabric softener in the dryer. I will now go and collect my worst wife of the year award.

His complaint was not how wonderfully soft and static free his work pants were, it was that – brace yourselves- one of the sheets fabric softener evidently made it’s way into his pant leg only to emerge from the cuff in front of all the other guys! GASP!!!!

How embarrassing!!!! Believe me he is scarred for life! There is no getting over the fact that all the guys at work now know that he is wearing laundered pants! Oh, the humanity!!!

Evidently when one is folding clothes one is supposed to check the insides of the pant legs for rogue dryer sheets. I know, I too was unaware of this for the first 25 years of my laundering life. But if this step is skipped you may well ruin your husbands life. Frankly, I think if the clothes make it through the laundry and end up folded in the drawer I win!

You think I am joking but this has become a hot button issue in our house, Since the  “great fabric softener” debacle every time Himself sees a sheet of fabric softener next to the laundry I’m folding he feels the need to ask “Are you going to throw that away?” And being the loving wife that I am and because I completely understand that I have caused him to have a phobia of fabric softener, I do my best to calm his fears “The fabric softener? Why would I throw that away? I keep those to slip into your pant legs whenever you annoy me.” He really gets my sarcasm and totally trusts me which is why he always scowls and says “NOT FUNNY!” and then grabs the sheet of fabric softener and throws it away himself while I holler “Hey! Where are you going with that? I think there is a pant leg here without a sheet of fabric softener in it!”

I guess I don’t really understand being embarrassed by a sheet of fabric softener. I mean come on, it’s not like it is a tampon string hanging out of your shorts or anything. His reasoning is “everyone will think I am a bachelor.” again, GASP!!! I counter with “The only thing people are going to think is that you are wearing clean pants.”

Actually I have come up with a great solution thanks to one of my favorite bloggers over at The Bearded Iris  she has these great fabric softener balls that she crocheted. They are awesome and they look like boobies!!!

I honestly think that these wonderful boobies may be the answer to our problem because while having a sheet of fabric softener hanging out of the cuff of your pants at work is super embarrassing and worth complaining about for months on end,  having a crocheted boobie roll out of your pant leg…not embarrassing AT ALL!

(insert maniacal laughter here)

Meditation Lessons for Real Life

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I am having a difficult time getting a blog post written. I want to write, I have tons of thoughts swirling around in my head that I would very much like to put in order and get down on paper. (Can you still say that if you are typing on a computer? Get down on screen…I don’t know…) The problem I am having (as you can see) is FOCUS! I am not having a problem WITH my focus, the problem I am having is that I don’t seem to have any focus at all. I don’t know what happened to it, I just woke up one morning and it was gone. The fact that my focus seemed to take off at the same time I had children is a coincidence I’m sure. Having two adolescent boys and quite often their adolescent friends about has nothing to do with the fact that I cannot focus on writing (she says sarcastically)

I need to calm the chaos in my mind and find a thread of thought that I can turn into a blog post. I am truly at a loss here! There is only one thing to do under these circumstances…meditate. (You thought I was going to say drink, didn’t you? Don’t worry, we’ll get to that!) Meditation has been proven over thousands of years to be wonderful way to calm the jumbled mind and quiet the spirit. But how does a mother in a chaotic household find time for quiet meditation? Let me take you through the steps!

STEP 1: Find the quietest room in your house. In my case that is my bedroom. Don’t worry about the unmade bed you can deal with that later…on second thought go ahead and make the bed or it will be a huge distraction. Now I know that we’ve just made our bed but we are going to sit on the floor. Why? Because a sleep deprived mother does not sit quietly on the bed without napping. So sit down on the floor and…wait…is that popcorn? Who the fuck was eating popcorn in my room? Oh right…ME. Okay a quick vacuum and we are on to quiet meditation!

STEP 2: Spend 10 minutes trying to wind your too old body into that pretzely meditation pose you see all those peaceful, fit people doing, then give up and opt for the kindergarten “criss-cross applesauce” position.

STEP 3: Close your eyes and breathe in deeply…breathe out…breathe in…and I am definitely smelling dirty socks which are undoubtedly in a gross, sweaty ball at the bottom of the overflowing laundry basket. Okay let’s take a break from the meditation and get the laundry started so that we can focus on NOTHING!

STEP 3 (take two): Close your eyes…you know what…this isn’t going to work with all the video games and wrestling and what not going on in the house. So let’s go get our peace and tranquility on out in the yard. There is a nice breeze, the grass is cool…we should have done this in the first place!

STEP 3 (take three) Close your eyes and resume your breathing. Don’t let all the false starts get to you. Nothing worthwhile is easy and believe me, this whole peace and tranquility thing is SO going to be worth it! Breathe in…breathe out…breathe in…wait is that doggie breath? It is! You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding! Nice going Dog!!! I was just about to get my zen on when you came over all breathing in my face with your doggie breath.

STEP 3: (revised) Pet the dog for a few minutes which is oddly calming.

STEP 4:Make peace with your chaos. This is your life; the 500 questions an hour, (499 of which you answered an hour ago) the arguing, the constant electronic noises coming from the TV, computer, and various game systems, the endless whining, the chores, the meltdowns, the ever-loving joy of being a mom.

STEP 5: Go find that bottle of liquid peace and tranquility and pour yourself a big ol’ glass! And remember meditation is good for your soul and should be done daily!

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It’s complimentary my dear Watson

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When do we learn that accepting a compliment is a bad thing? You know what I’m talking about. The way we treat compliments like that last piece of cake that EVERYONE wants but no one will actually take.

If you tell a 2 year old she looks beautiful she says “Thank You” because she knows it’s true and she is honestly glad that you noticed.

If you tell a 12 year old she looks beautiful she will more than likely roll her eyes do the “aw shucks” thing and maybe mumble “thanks” in a way that dismisses rather than owns the compliment.

I am not sure what happens in these 10 years to keep us from graciously accepting a compliment, but I do know that once this is learned it stays with us the rest of our lives.

In some cases insecure females will use compliment deflection as a way to fish for more compliments:

“You look great”

“I feel fat”

“Well you don’t look it”

“I am ugly”

“No you’re pretty”

and on and on. This is the most pathetic case of compliment deflection and is usually practiced by shallow insecure females under 25. And if you do this, STOP RIGHT NOW! However, this isn’t the kind of deflection I am talking about.

I am talking about the true discomfort most of us feel when someone says something nice to us. That inner squirming…you gals know what I mean.

If someone tells us that our hair looks nice we don’t say thanks we start explaining how we got the look and why it isn’t as good as it should be. Sometimes we pass the compliment on instead of keeping it for ourselves. “It’s this new shampoo I am trying made from the sweat of MLB mascots.” or “Yes I’m trying a new hairstylist, she only uses antique scissors blessed by Tibetan monks.”

If someone compliments us on our outfit we tell them where we got it and how much it cost because the point isn’t that YOU picked out a beautiful outfit that looks great on YOU the point is that we got it for eight dollars at Target.

If someone says we did a good job we explain how we lucked out, the stars were aligned just right to help us pull of this miracle of doing a great job instead of being a total fuck up.

If someone says something ambiguous like “You look fantastic” we joke around and do a wild impromptu game of compliment badminton trying to deflect the compliment and send it back to the other person. (No, YOU are the one who looks great, is that a new dress? Why yes it is, I got it for eight dollars at Target)

What we DON’T do is accept the compliment with grace . . . and we should. If you tried hard to look nice, own that shit and say THANK YOU! Don’t say thank you and offer an explanation, that is just sneaky deflection. You start off right with a thank you and then POW send that baby right back over the net with some drawn out explanation of why you’re having an off day and happen to be awesome.

QUIT DOING THAT! Why do we sell ourselves short? It’s okay to be wonderful and beautiful and smart and if someone else notices then good for them. Say thank you and mean it! Channel that inner 2 year old who knew how fabulous she was.

This is something that I have really been working on and it feels good to not have to explain away a compliment. It feels good to take pride in myself when I do a good job. When I take time to wear something other than yoga pants and t-shirts, I’m glad people notice. It’s a good thing.

I’m not 100% perfect on compliment accepting but I am getting better. Sometimes I get those insincere compliments from pretentious bitchy women who use back-handed compliments to point out what’s wrong with you. (I just love what you’re doing with your hair, I could never go three days without washing my hair) you know what? Just say thank you to those bitches as well, it totally throws them off their game!

I admit sometimes it is difficult to know how to respond to a compliment.  Just the other day I was at the doctors office for my annual exam and, in my defense, I think having my feet up in those god-awful stirrups threw me off. In the middle of the exam my doctor says, “Your cervix looks wonderful” now how do you respond to that compliment? Judging by the look on my doctor’s face you do NOT respond with “What? This old thing?”

“It’s 120 degrees outside! Let’s buy mittens!” Said no one ever.

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Today I lived my own version of Mission Impossible. I tried to buy sandals in August. Yes, you heard me right. Sandals. In August. This is pretty much how the day went:

Me: Hello, I’m looking for some sandals for a 14 year old boy.

Salesman: NO SANDALS FOR YOU!!! …but we do have a lovely selection of snow boots in stock now.

Um…yeah, because I asked for a ventilated shoe that is good for wading through creeks and won’t look dorky with shorts. But okay, give me a furlined, calf-high toaster-oven, that’ll work just as well…NOT!!!

Seriously, what is up with that? You can’t buy swimsuits or sandals in August when it’s 142 freakin’ degrees outside? No. You have to buy them in February…you know right after you shovel the snow from your driveway. In August you better wipe that boob sweat off and get your summer swamp ass to town to pick out your winter jacket, because by the time it is cold enough for you to actually need a winter jacket the only thing you will find at the stores are beach towels and flip-flops.

What I want to know is who the hell are these people who are shopping two seasons ahead? If you do this, you really need to stop…NOW. You are ruining things for the rest of us. When you buy a speedo in January you support the retailers decision to discriminate against the procrastinators, the disorganized and the chronically lazy.

That goes for you moms who are buying school supplies the second week of July. My kids have been out of school for less than a month at this point and there is no way we are going Back to School shopping. But I see a lot of you in there with your school lists buying all the pink erasers so that when I do my Back to School shopping the Friday before Labor day there is not a single pink eraser left on the planet.

Thanks to you over-achievers we get to listen to Jingle Bells while we shop for Halloween candy (which we have to buy in April or get stuck with the 15 lb bag of suckers) and then when we try to buy stuffing for the turkey in November the only thing we can find to stuff it with is Easter Jelly Bellys. (Which is suprisingly NOT delicious)

What I am trying to say is, we let these retailers keep us hopping. We can’t enjoy the moment. We can’t have a nice summer vacation because by the time we start to settle into summer it is over according to every Mall, Walmart and Target in America. There is truly something to be said for enjoying where we are right now, this second. I for one like to shop for summer clothes when it is above 80 degrees. I like to buy my food the week, if not the day, that I eat it.

If I bought snow boots today, I would probably get the sensible brown ones, or the kinda classy black ones, but in 3 months I might be the kind of person who would wear the purple snow boots with the fringe down the back.  I think life is a beautiful journey and I don’t want to plan for who I am going to be 3 months from now. I want it to be a wonderful surprise.

 

This is our future, folks!