Not Sooo Fierce

Apparently, my alter ego’s name is Ferocia. That’s right. Ferocia.

How did I come to this disturbing conclusion you might ask? A certain contestant on PR4 parades around in the same pair of Pradas as myself. Trouble is HE is a designing diva with an attitude and an asymmetrical Benatar butch. I’m a facing forty gal who doesn’t feel very fatale anymore.

These days the glamor belongs to Fergie. And the only thing I want flossy, flossy is well… I don’t even know what that means honestly.

Back to Benatar. I love him. He can sew. He can bitch. He’s an offensive heartbreaker with a mess of talent none of us mortals have at our disposal. But having the same taste in eyewear? Not sure that’s so fierce.

Exhibit A: Chelle’s pair of Pradas.

When I picked out my Pradas, I certainly did not look in the mirror and say “I want something that says I’m an annoying boy wonder.” And likewise he did not look in the mirror and say “I want something that says I’m an angry, aging DINK who eats too much chocolate.” Yet, here we are. What’s a boy girl to do next?

Adopt an alter ego. I had one in high school. (20th class reunion coming, v. scary.) I had one in college. At the office? I’m too busy being overworked and underpaid to actualize an alter ego. But perhaps I should consider it. Ferocia. Because having the same eyewear as boy wonder from PR4 is sooo fierce it freaks me out completely.

The Espresso Beanstalk

Tonight I was a diva down in the dumps. And like a pop starlet fallen from fame, I carelessly indulged. Perhaps there’s a twelve-step program that might save me from myself and my caffeine nightmare.

It’s been a long week at work, the house is a disaster and I still have an extreme case of cabin fever. So tonight I indulged. Must See TV. The couch and I were catching up and there was a cozy fire going. Then I did it again. Ooops… A handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans. What’s the harm in that?

A lot of harm. The clock now reads 3:56 a.m. For each espresso bean down in my digestive tract, I’ve spend an hour with eyes wide shut. Open. Shut. Open. DAMN IT, I CAN’T SLEEP AGAIN!

Last time I went on a bender I retooled my blog. So maybe good things happen from a caffeine-induced coma. But I have to admit it. I am powerless over caffeine. Step 1.

I’ve taken inventory of sheep and many other bizarre things in the wee hours. Admitted my wrongdoings with the beans and begged to have this defect removed from my character. That’s at least another 3 or 4 steps, so maybe I’m headed towards recovery.

4:19 a.m. DAMN IT, I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN!

If I promise to return the espresso beans to the ogre will the sleep fairy please visit? I apologize in advance for this post and am willing to make amends for it. At least tomorrow is Friday.

Nasturtiums Are Nice

I’ve got a case of cabin fever. And it’s not even February yet. Perhaps the lack of winter wonderland has made me more anxious for warmer weather this year. Or the encouraging lightness of the sky later into the hours of the day deceive.

Whatever it is, I’ve got cabin fever. Usually a weekend away from the chill will help. This year as I stare at the calendar, there is no weekend away penciled in those squares. We’re on budget. We have a new bathroom…

Don’t get me wrong. The new bathroom is amazing. But the last few weeks as I tiptoe over the frigid tile and turn on Mr. Faucet, I feel a bit frustrated. There he is hanging with his pal Soap. Warm water? No problem. Cold instead? Sure. He’s flexible.

I, on the other hand, am not feeling so flexible. My bones want warmth. They want adventure. They want flowers. But alas, it is time to pay the bathroom bills, so here I’ll stay in my cabin with my fever. Perhaps pretty pictures of flowers will be an inspiration. Nasturtiums are nice.

525,600 Minutes

How do you measure a year of your life… Is the quality of each moment with loved ones what matters most? Or is it the quantity of moments that demonstrates dedication and commitment?

How do you measure a year of your life… Does it make a difference what we do every 1,440 minutes or where we do it? Or is it who you are that truly defines your journey?

How do you measure a year of your life… If tomorrow you were asked to give an appraisal of the past 525,600 minutes, what would have the greatest value to you? And as the song goes, is the yardstick by which we measure each minute that four letter word, LOVE?

Perhaps it’s the Rent soundtrack on the iPod or perhaps it’s the Sunday Night Blues. I wonder if you’ll tell me how you measure a year of your life…

Just Another Shitty Post

Most women my age have children. As mothers, these women have stories to share with each other on the subject of poop. My coworker Anna posted yesterday about her own horror with fecal matter as a mother.

I was feeling a bit left out of the poopy party and then realized that I indeed have my own story to share as an Aunt. It just might be the reason my husband and I don’t have kids. So here it goes…

We were babysitting our niece and nephew for the evening. My darling, little niece was three months old at the time and my fiendish, little nephew was half way between 2 and 3 years old and half way between diapers and pullups. We had a dog around the same age as the nephew and they were best buddies. Where my nephew went, the dog went with tongue in pursuit of gooey things stuck to my nephew.

And so came the poop that evening. My nephew filled his diaper with something ghastly and was determined not to have it removed. The dog got interested in this game. My dear husband was occupied with my sweet, little niece. And so, I was left to wrestle the dirty off my nephew.

Yes, wrestle is the correct word. I wish it wasn’t, but wrestle we did while on the new comforter in the bedroom. I thought I was smart. I put down a towel and shut the door. Not quite smart enough. My nephew managed to wriggle away after the diaper was removed with the process not yet completed. And the dog managed to wriggle into the bedroom. Neither was ready for what happened next. Let’s just say the nephew, dog, comforter and myself required a bath.

My fiendish, little nephew is now a handsome, well-mannered young man and has absolutely no recall of this rather awful event. I’m waiting for the right time and place to discuss the disgusting details. Perhaps his future, true love will want to know all about him and what he was like when he was a cute, little fiend.