Whew! What a past couple days! Still have the Christmas tree up, as I should. I hate to see it ever come down, but I know it'll start drying up and dropping needles all over the floor soon. It's inevitable.

 

Had a great Christmas. The dollhouse was an obvious hit--Mia played with it while she rode her scooter with Barbie in the basket, piddled around on her laptop as she watched Kung Fu Panda, and gorged herself on cookies. Cheyenne was happy as a clam with her new vest, Cooking Mama, and her freakin' cell phone, which we have yet to set up but I'm hoping to figure it out today. Merrick...was content to eat wrapping paper, when he could get away with it, but he could've cared less about everything else. He was stylin' in all his new clothes.

 

Caleb and I didn't go empty-handed either--we bought each other $10 sweaters from Old Navy (picked out and purchased by yours truly), but we specifically asked (demanded) that no one send us any presents. We made off with 3 gift cards to Wal-mart, a Christmas fireplace screen, a digital photo frame, and my mom even sent a kick-ass Southern Living recipe book--I'm guessing that's so I don't have to steal anymore magazines from the doctor's office.

 

And the best news? My little sister Katie got engaged Christmas Eve! It's still hard for me to believe she's old enough to drive let alone get married, but I'm so happy for her, and I can't wait for the wedding, which right now is projected for June/July 2010, just in time for my 30th birthday. Suuuu-weet.

 

Hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, and a great Christmas week. Next comes New Year's Eve!

Christmas Eve Day is the best damn day of the year. It's even better than Christmas Day, if you ask me. I'm so excited I can barely stand myself. The sky is blue. The house is clean. We've got a big honkin' chicken thawing and I've got presents to wrap. Mia's wound up beyond belief and Cheyenne is mildly happy. I freakin' love Christmas.

 

Freakin. Love. It.

 

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Normally people I know don't buy into my conspiracy theories, of which I have many, but this most recent one seems to be popular: That pre-k party was a set up. I was set up. Let's run through the facts: I was told by the other room mother to be at the school about 30 minutes after I should have been there. The supplies I was asked to bring were mysteriously already brought--by the other room mother--and, she also brought an extra ornament "just in case any one forgot to send one". Nobody was waiting to start the party so that I could get there with my crafts and Mia's ornament. No one called me on my cell to find out where the hell I was 15 minutes into the party. So. Am I the only one who thinks maybe, just maybe, I just got served by a vicious alpha-mom whose order of the day was to make another mother look bad for whatever reason? Am I being...bullied? Maybe. But who cares? I will say one thing: PTA chicks are CRAZY.

 

Moving on.

 

We have less than 2 days left until Christmas. Suuuu-weet. Caleb's sister called yesterday to tell us she's coming up tomorrow, which is no biggie since, like her father, she doesn't seem to mind my dirty house. I will attempt to vacuum and mop. I refuse to do laundry. I might ask Cheyenne to bake some cookies. Mia is so totally stoked about Christmas. She sings carols all day. She talks about Santa Claus all the time. She's in her Christmas prime right now; it's so much fun. Cheyenne will be excited, I think, on the actual day of Christmas, but until then, it's just another boring day. Merrick obviously does not care about Christmas and he probably won't next year, either. Which is fine. His day will come.

 

I don't know if I will post again this week; so, Merry Christmas to everyone!

 

4.

More.

Days.

 

I can't wait.

 

Really.

 

I freakin' love Christmas. I love it even more now that Mia's Pre-K Holiday party is over and done with. Yesterday sucked ass.

 

Let me first say that I've grown to genuinely like the other Pre-K room-mother, who is, as I've mentioned, a bit over-the-top when it comes to party planning, and who also happens to live just across the street. She's nice. She really is. Her son and my daughter are the best of friends. She and her husband are good neighbors.  I honestly don't blame the ass-sucking day completely on her.

 

But...

 

When I asked her (15 different times) what time I needed to be at the school to set up for the party, she told me (15 different times) 9:30 a.m. would be perfect. So when I get to the classroom at 9:35, I expected to have missed out on maybe 5 minutes of set up--because I know I was late. Instead, the food was out, the tables were covered in crafts, the kids had exchanged ornaments and the teacher was reading "The Night Before Christmas". It was like they had started the party half an hour before I even got in my car.

 

I was so embarrassed. So terribly embarrassed, and a little angry--mostly at myself for not just asking the teacher what time she wanted to start the party. The other mothers probably thought I was a slacker. The teacher thought I was a jackass. And my co-room-mother acted like she was mad at me! Mia didn't get to exchange her ornament. The kids didn't use my sequins and glitter and yarn and glue and construction paper. They didn't eat my gingerbread man shaped peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, or my chocolate bark, but that's mostly because they had gorged themselves on the cookies they had decorated mainly with globs of icing and sprinkles. Merrick was an absolute madman and wasn't happy unless he was moving around the room by means of mommy holding his hands and letting him "walk" like a big boy.

 

The worst part? I cried. I cried. Damnit damnit damnit I cried--there, in the classroom, in front of everyone--although, thankfully, only one person noticed.

 

I still get an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about yesterday and what a failure I felt like. It's been a long time since I've been this upset over something unrelated to my husband and his unhealthy obsession with the laundry.

 

Caleb tried to cheer me up by suggesting we watch Talledega Nights--and yes, that did help. I made it all the way through "Daddy, you just made that Grace your bitch!" before falling fast asleep, and today, I got back into the Christmas spirit by wrapping some presents; tomorrow, Caleb and I are shopping for stocking stuffers together. I figure it's at least 2, maybe 3 more months before the next big Pre-K party; but I only have 4. More. Days. Until Christmas.

 

I can't wait.

 

Really.

I think I caused a rumble in the grocery store today. Let me start at the beginning: I've been baking Christmas cookies.

 

Okay, okay. I've been attempting to bake Christmas cookies. You'd think that a 28-year-old mother of three would be able to turn out some decent cookies--but you would be wrong. I. Can't. Do. It. I follow the recipe exactly--viola! Burnt cookies. (Remember my ghetto biscotti? Had some this morning with my coffee.) I change a few things up--lower the oven temperature just a bit, cut back on the time--still, I get extra crispy cookies.

 

What the hell.

 

I read somewhere that the secret to good cookies is real butter. I took Mia and Merrick to the store in search of just that. But when faced with my options--salted or unsalted butter--I froze. I was stumped. I'm no baking genius; how was I supposed to know what the difference was? So I found the nearest granny, who had a nice face and a cart full of baking neccessities, and I politely said to her, "Excuse me, you look like you know what you're doing. What kind of butter is best for cookies? Unsalted or salted?"

 

"Oh, definitely unsalted," she said, and then walked off rudely without an explanation or a second look back. Bitch didn't even compliment me on what cute snot-nosed kids I had.

 

Hmmm. Okay, unsalted. Makes sense. Kind of. Grannies know these things, so I grabbed some.

 

I pushed my cart 2 feet and another lady was in my face. "I've always used salted butter and my cookies turn out perfectly. There's some on sale back over there."

 

Okay, salted butter, then. On sale. Sweet. I turned around and hit the first granny in the buggy.

 

"Did she tell you something different than what I told you?" she asked, and she wasn't smiling.

 

"Um...well, she...yeah, she did," I admitted sheepishly.

 

"Unsalted butter is what you want," said Granny #1.

 

"No, I think it depends on the cookie," said a third lady.

 

"I used salted butter all the time and there's no difference," said Granny #2.

 

"Well, you don't need salted butter if there's salt somewhere else in the recipe," huffs Granny #1.

 

All three of them turn to look at me, waiting to see what kind of butter I'm going to go with. Shit. I grab them both. And then my phone rings (Thank you, Megan) and I left the old ladies in the dairy section while I got the hell on out of the grocery store with my 2 pounds of butter.

 

Geez.

 

Before we left, I allowed Mia to pick out some crap cookies in a fancy little box from the "Sale!" part of the store, since I wasn't sure how my cookies would turn out. Memo to me: Check cookies before eating next time to make sure they are, indeed, cookies, and not gourmet dog biscuits.

 

I could give the rest of them to Noah, but that dog has eaten enough crayons to shit candles for a month. Today I came home and he had gotten into our Christmas cards--which were on our (very tall) dining room table. I'm getting out the crate today and he's going in. No more taking 20 minutes to dog-proof the house before I leave; he's going in and I don't care how much he pees all over himself just to spite me. I'm crating that little bastard.

 

Right after I burn some more cookies.

 

Don't have much time today, but I will post this: The rooms are pretty much done. Furniture has been moved, clothes have been hung, and toys have been put away. The little kids' room has been painted a stark shade of bright white and one chocolate wall. It's great. Cheyenne has not yet decided what color she would like in her new room, so we're holding off for now. The rest of our house is a disaster area--it became a holding place for junk and whatnots during the big room change and now I've got to work on getting it back to only semi-messy. That is my main mission for the week.

 

My father-in-law's visit was nice; he wasn't here long but he was incredibly helpful, as always. The kids love kickin' it with Grandpa--Mia kept him busy reading books and pushing her on the swing; and he even taught Cheyenne how to sew--seriously. How many kids have grandpas that know how to use a sewing machine, or that would spend 3 hours making sure they understood? I don't know any.

 

Our neighbor/friends Shawna and Billy came over Saturday night and bought us wonderful things; toys and books for the kids and a huge honkin' basket of frozen Christmas dinner for the family. They took their greatness one step further and invited us over for Sunday night GUMBO--which was so, so, so good...too good for words.

 

I'll try to get some pictures up in a little while.

 

Okay. So I'm driving back from dropping Mia off at school and I decide it's high time I listen to something other than the Christmas Carol station; FLO RIDA! is on, so I start jamming. I love booty music; it is my one guilty pleasure (well, not my one--I have many) but I don't get much chance to play it as I feel incredibly guilty letting the kids hear it. The guilt started one day when I heard Cheyenne singing "I am. Getting. So Hot. I'm Gonna Take my Clothes off!" at 7 years old. So basically ever since then.

 

Anyway, it takes me about halfway through the song to realize that I had been muting all the "bad" parts and a sleeping Merrick didn't care one way or another. I then noticed that the back window was down--thank you, Mia--and that all the people in the drop-off traffic had probably heard my feeble attempt at gangsta rap. Bad? Yes. Worse? Apparently the Saturn's windows are not as tinted as I had thought; I guess my rear-view mirror video-making days are over.

 

Yesterday was fantastic. Tiring, but fantastic. Caleb and I played chess--a little sexier than UNO, yes?--before calling it a night. We all overslept this morning, and when I got back to the house after embarrassing myself--er, I mean, dropping the kids off at school, Noah had eaten 50 crayons and broken into a pack of markers. There's electric turquoise ink all over the living room floor. Fucker. Were these things left in a spot that he could presumably reach? No. This dog is a ninja, I swear.

 

My father-in-law is flying in today. The wonderful thing about this man is that he never expects me to have a clean house--which works for me on a day like today. Although I have already mopped the living room floor...

 

All my Christmas shopping is done. Done. Caleb and I decided a long time ago that we'd only be buying for the kids this year; you'd think that our whittled-down list would've made things easy--but it was difficult I tell you! Have you ever tried to spend $250 total on 3 kids--Santa Claus presents included? Damn near impossible. I came in around $115 a piece for the girls, and $70 for Merrick. A little over budget, but I'm proud of myself nonetheless. The only problem comes next year--or the year after that--or whenever we're in a better position moneywise--Caleb will expect the same gift-giving restraint, which did not come easily for me in the retail wonderland that is the Christmas season. I hope I can hold out 12 more days without buying anything else.

 

December 11th, 2008. Our 4th anniversary. Caleb's present? I'm shaving my legs today, and I might let him win a game of UNO.

 

We're celebrating by going to not one, but TWO story times at the public library, followed by a middle school choir concert at 7:00 tonight. This day is going to kick ass.

 

And I just realized the dollhouse we ordered has a most excellent 3rd floor balcony.

 

I read something the other day on Texas Girl Jenn's site that really hit home. She is an amazing writer.  All the serious thoughts I have (I swear I do have serious thoughts--on occasion) but can never put into words? Always captured perfectly on her page. She's good. She's real good. You can access the post from the link on the left. I tried to trackback but couldn't really figure it out.

No snow.

 

Sigh.

 

The dollhouse dilema is solved thanks to a suggestion made by my friend Anne. And so, by December 15th (hopefully), the coolest, biggest, most durable furnished dollhouse our money can afford at this point in time will arrive on our doorstep:

 

Day...I don't know, but I think Caleb and I have gotten over our fight. No, he didn't apologize, but the important thing is...neither did I. We're pretty much good--although he did douse me with a pitcher of ice cold water in the shower last night for the second time this week.

 

I'll forgive him for that...

 

But I won't forget.

 

A Christmas enthusiast like myself can't help but be in a complete state of happiness today; the sun is not shining. It's buttass cold outside, and the weather experts are predicting snow by this afternoon. All three of my dogs are sleeping. Merrick is playing contently in his walker. Mia is pushing a humongous box around the living room, and Cheyenne is primping for school. I sit on my couch in the cozy glow of tree lights, listening to my Christmas clock chime "Deck The Halls" for 7:00. Life is good.

 

This weekend we're going to go ahead with The Great Bedroom Upheaval. It's going to involve a lot of white paint and cussing. Caleb and I will probably fight again--unless I can convince him to just follow my lead as far as furniture placement goes. I have a plan--and I know it will work--I only need him and his muscles to put that plan into action.

 

I've been totally bad about answering e-mails and phone calls the last couple weeks. I'm not ignoring anyone; promise. I just get sidetracked. Easily. As evidenced by my inability to finish a load of laundry.

 

Caleb and I are now 61 hours into our fight. You know things are really bad when you watch "War of the Roses" and instead of laughing, your stomach turns, and you get so disturbed that you decide to watch "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure" instead.

 

We've been speaking, joking, laughing. We've half-heartedly held hands, and we've even talked about his smoking dilema. But he's still mad at me, which, in turn, makes me still mad at him.

 

Yeah. Still mad at me. Why? Because I didn't completely finish the laundry yesterday--the one thing I guess he really wanted me to get done. He came home after being gone for 9 hours and the first thing he did--I shit you not--was to open the dryer and check to see if I had folded the clothes. I don't think he even said "hi" to me.

 

I finished one entire load; I just forgot to take the other out of the dryer, being as I got about 2 and 1/2 hours sleep the night before, and since I was so busy taking care of the baby/picking Mia up from school/cleaning up after Mia/reading to Mia/playing with Mia/taking care of the baby/planning Mia's Pre-K Christmas Party with the over-zealous co-room-mother/getting out Christmas ornaments/working on Christmas cards/cleaning the kitchen/taking care of the baby/vacuuming/dusting/straightening the living room/taking care of the baby/letting the dogs in and out of the house a million times/getting my shower finally at 4:00 p.m./washing my hair for the first time in 3 days/putting on make-up to look pretty for my husband for the first time in 8 days/and just generally being my *lazy ass self*, and OH, taking care of the baby.

 

I can't believe I didn't say the word "fuck" in that whole paragraph. Not even once.

 

Sigh.

 

I get so depressed when we fight, even when I know deep down that I'm basically right and he's basically ridiculous. I mean, the way he explained it today ("I'm doing my part at work outside the house--the least you could do is one load of laundry.") made sense...assuming I do absolutely nothing around the house on a daily basis. And I do appreciate everything he puts into this family and this household, and I can understand how stressed out he is. I can even understand why he sneaks cigarettes here and there--hell, I'm so stressed out that I've been tempted to start smoking them myself. So I take it back about him being basically ridiculous. Strung out over something he shouldn't have even concerned himself with to begin with? Maybe. But not ridiculous.

 

I could dwell on how silly it was of him to get so worked up about the laundry in the first place--it is, after all, "my job", and he need not worry about exactly what time of day a certain load gets folded. But instead I find myself upset with...myself...for not remembering to fold the damn clothes the second they were done.

 

So anyway, when he came home and slammed the dryer door in pissed-off huff, I instinctively went into fuck-you-in-a-goat's-ass mode, and that didn't fly over too well with him...and things went downhill from there. I'll be the first to admit my attitude sucked last night--and that's probably why he got that "ungrateful bitch vibe" from me.

 

I'm sorry; I meant to convey the vibe that says "Hey asshole much? Are you fucking kidding me? Stop freaking out over the laundry. Look, I'm folding it right now, see? Calm yourself. Sit. Would you like a sandwich? A beer? Look at all the other things I've done around the house today. I know you can't really tell because the dog hair replenishes itself every 5 minutes, but I vacuumed. And in case you were wondering, I'm not mad at you for smoking. I'm not even mad at you for being mad at me because you thought I was mad at you for smoking.  It's fine; things will get better. I'm just as stressed-out and worried as you are; but I'm here for you. And I was hoping we could make sweet monkey love later on tonight...wait, did you seriously just ask me if I had really dusted? Bitch please. Get your own sandwich, and fuck no, I'm not going to hang out with you on the couch while you give me silent treatment. I can't fucking believe this shit."

 

I got a small reprieve today when we went to pick out and chop down our tree. I was on a Christmas high for about 3 hours. Nothing puts me in a good mood like putting sparkly balls on an evergreen. But alas, the thrill wore off, and we were back to our pissy selves before lunchtime. Caleb is now at our neighbor/friend's house watching football, and honestly, it'll probably do him some good to get the hell away from me for awhile. I just hope his team wins, because I can't bear to see him in a worse mood than he already is.

 

It's gotta be the cigarettes.

 

99% of the interaction between my husband and I never makes the internet. I guess you could say I'm making up for lost times today.

 

And while that sounds promising and juicy and whatnot, I'll make this very long story short. My husband and I fight. Bicker. Argue. Discuss. Yesterday our topic of choice was cigarettes and why he felt the need, after almost 7 whole months, to start smoking again.

 

I take this choice of his personally. I was rooting for him during the quitting stage. I was happy for him when it appeared that he achieved his goal. And I can't tell you how disappointed I was when I made my discovery...but that's beside the point.

 

Last night when I ever-so-sweetly asked him what made him start up again and how could we help him stop, he, in a not-so-roundabout way, blamed the entire thing on ME and a bullshit goof I had made that morning. I am still enraged.

 

It's a classic game plan--shifting the focus to someone else. It's not okay for him to look bad in anyway to anyone, but it's perfectly acceptable to make me out to be the bad guy/stone cold bitch/jackass/fuck-up. Everything he does somehow always becomes my fault. I'll own up to my own mistakes, when I make them. And I make a lot. And I know it. But this. Is. Not. My. Doing.

 

Besides, he's been sneaking cigarettes a long time before yesterday morning. I know this for a fact. So, nice try.

 

And okay, you know what? Smoke. Smoke a pack a day. Smoke away $130 a month that we don't have. Smoke away your health, smoke away the respect of your teenage children, smoke away your dignity and will power, SMOKE LIKE YOU MEAN IT. Fine. I don't give a fuckity-fuck fuck fuck. (Well, I do, actually, but for the sake of this paragraph...)

 

I know he's worried all the time. I know what kind of toll our financial situation takes on his stress level. I know how hard it was to quit. Caleb's only one man. But he never admits defeat. He never shows fear. He never cries, he never asks for help, and he never--never--apologizes. He's like a Cyborg who's really good at UNO. Although I guess I would expect Cyborgs to be good at UNO anyway, so then he's just like a plain old Cyborg.

 

I caught an interview between Barbara Walters and Will Smith in which Will Smith said something like: "Being married is the absolute hardest thing you will ever do." And I couldn't help but agree. I was so pissed with Caleb--not about the smoking--that I could barely stand to sleep beside him last night. I want that apology. I want it so bad I can taste it. But with him, I know I'll never get it. So I vent publically to you people. It is nature's way.

 

He'll come up behind me later, and tickle me, or soak me with the vegetable sprayer, and that'll be his way of asking for a truce. I don't have it in me to hold out for him to actually say he's sorry. And that'll be it. Maybe he'll pick up cigarettes full time again, maybe he'll quit forever--again. Maybe he'll still use me as his fallback excuse for whatever he does wrong. Maybe I'll be so mad at him I'll accidentally kick him in his sleep on purpose. Maybe I'll pour a cup of cold water on him in the shower. Maybe I'll forgive him even though he didn't ask to be forgiven. Would that make me divine? Yes, of course. Yes, I think so. I cannot deny my own perfection.

 

Maybe I'll just stomp his ass at our nightly game of UNO.

 

Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Okay, so the doll house idea might not fly like I want it to this year. Did you know for big honkin' plastic doll house you will pay a minimum of $60.00? And that's just for the house--furniture not included! You'll shell out $149.00 if you want the whole enchilada--the Grand Mega--and I for one, would rather just go ahead and build my own, thankyouverymuch. Curse you, Loving Family!

 

I've been thinking about doing our Christmas cards and I've decided we might have to skip the whole family update section, which I usually only reserve for those we never talk to anyway. 2008 has been The Year The Shit Hit The Fan, in a big way, for us. Dog dying, Caleb getting laid off, Merrick being born, Merrick having craniosynostosis, Caleb's grandma dying, Caleb being unemployed, Merrick having Craniosynostosis surgery, Caleb starting a new job...I think our nerves are shot. Permanently.

 

Thank God for Christmas. I'm determined to get the decorations down from the attic today and we'll chop down a tree and have it up by Sunday if it kills me.

 

Still debating on what to do about the kids' bedrooms. I initially thought I'd put Cheyenne and Mia together--for several reasons. 1) Whoever shares a room will share the big room, which is further away from our room than the little one. This is not neccessarily convienent in terms of me getting up to check on the baby in the middle of the night. 2) Merrick needs complete and utter quiet to sleep. Mia loves to make noise at all times. 3) Mia has a billions small toys. Merrick likes to put things in his mouth. Need I say more?

 

Despite those reasons, I'm thinking of letting Cheyenne just go ahead and take over the small room. Besides, I've got a lot more decorating ideas for a Mia/Merrick room than I do a Cheyenne/Mia room. Merrick will finally get out of the closet--and into a room where he can play with Barbies and doll houses anytime.