The weekend provided an opportunity to celebrate our entrance to the Terrible Twos, aptly named, let me tell you.
SpongeBob was our theme of choice and I have provided a picture of the cake, hand made by moi, and not a bad likeness if I do say so myself.
The second picture is of our princess enjoying her birthday cake. On her back is the Finding Nemo backpack she got for Christmas which she refuses to take off...
I can hardly believe it. It was a shock to my system when she began driving, and a bigger shock when she started college. She is no longer a teenager, and I'm realizing that this officially makes me old. Old, not cool, and distinctly fuddy-duddy.
So, thanks for the horrid self-revelation, you little brat. If you were here, I'd make you hit yourself. Then tickle you until you wet yourself.
Today is Bunny Boop's birthday. Last year at this time I was in a hospital bed coming to terms with a little thing called "cluster feeding."
Since that day, she has brought nothing but joy to our lives. Without a doubt, she is the very best of us. So, what follows is a short pictoral retrospective.
Not sure about her arrival on the scene. Her Birthday...
Having fun in the sun...
Discovering the realities of static electricity...
Her first taste of birthday cake...
Her mother's attempt at her first Very Important Birthday Cake...
(For the record, the cake was two layers of chocolate fudge cake, separated by a single layer of French vanilla cake. Between the layers was a strawberry rhubarb sweet/tart filling. And yes, that is homemade buttercream frosting.)
I want to share something with you all that is a perfectly apt little vignette that describes my life.
For the past three months I have been busting my butt to get ready for the holidays. I've been doing all of the same things everyone else does and then some. I've shopped, of course. And finished shopping last Thursday. I've decorated. I've festooned the halls and every surface. I've sent out cards, I've wrapped gifts, I've planned menus, sent out invitations, and played hostess. And I've baked. I've been baking for 2 and a half weeks. Last night, the biggest of these projects was concluded.
I finished the baking and assembled 22 holiday-themed tins for our friends, family, and other special recipients. Cookies, candy, they are practically brimming with calories and flavor. Now, I know that I don't have to do this. And, Christina managed to catch me in a snit and actually got me to admit that I don't enjoy it. And, I don't enjoy the way it takes me 2 and a half weeks of non-stop on my feet to get this done. But, I really do enjoy putting the tins together and sending them out. It is like Holiday Cheer in a box. Oftentimes the recipients are not expecting the offering, and so it is a pure moment of bliss for them to open the box. It is like Christmas Magic, wrapped up in a special delivery.
It makes me feel like a little elf, doing Santa's bidding (even if sometimes in the wee hours I feel like slave labor). I was up until 1 am baking on Friday night, then assembled the tins last night. Once the goodies had been equally distributed to all, I boxed them up and suddenly this feeling came over me.
It was not just relief, although there was some of that. It was a moment of pure accomplishment. I've never done 22 tins before, you see. Usually I only do 12, a much more manageable number. So there I was, basking in the glow of a job well done, looking over all that I had completed. Two-thirds of my Christmas cards are done and in the mail. The bills are paid. The dishes are done. The house is back to rights after the party over the weekend. I'm feeling at peace and satisfied.
I go to bed, pleased with myself, and looking forward to enjoying the next three weeks. This morning, I rise and get Bunny and I ready to depart the house for our Monday morning and what do you know? The battery on the Jeep is dead. Clickety clickety - no go.
Do you see what happened there? I was feeling pleased with myself, maybe even a bit proud, and the powers that be choose to take me down a peg. Maybe it wasn't the divine. Maybe it was merely Phoenix's corollary to Murphy's Law:
Murphy's Law: That which can go wrong, will go wrong.
Phoenix's Corollary: That which can go wrong, will go wrong, and at such as time as to maximize the inconvenience and aggravation level.
So, I'm busy feeling chastened and pondering my next project: The Birthday Cake.
But, just so you know, I always do this. I always plan ahead, I always work ahead or develop a schedule. I always make more work for myself by seeking perfection. I am always proud when the project concludes. And...I am frequently reminded not to think too much of myself.
So, I'm aware of the problem. They tell me that's the first step.
A very special Happy Birthday goes out to SpySistah, who turns 30 today.
I personally hope you don't have to kick any terrorist ass today, unless you want to, in which case I would wish you a multitude of terrorist ass to kick.
As usual, I went media silent over the weekend and missed the birth of the Jolie-Pitt baby. If only I cared.
I am firmly in Camp Aniston as I can't bring myself to align myself with cheaters, homewreckers, or their bastard children (yeah, yeah, I'm sure she's a perfectly beautiful baby--as long as she doesn't look like her mom). So sue me, I'm in a cranky mood.
The baby is asleep for the moment and I have about 15 minutes before I have to start supper.
My weekend was short and dull.
It took me an hour to get home from work on Friday. This means, I should tell you, that even though the markets closed early and I should have gotten to leave early, I got trapped at work (totally the fault of someone who has to get their work done so that I can edit it). I usually get home at 4:30, but on Friday I didn't get home until 5:30. So, I was pissed off right away. The interstate was a parking lot, filled with the residents of the state of Illinois making their weekend trek to the lovely vistas of Wisconsin. Don't ask me why there is a mass exodus of Illinoians to Wisconsin every weekend, but there is. It makes driving hell. There was no way to get anywhere at that hour on Friday. Now, if I had been able to leave at 2 pm with everybody else....
Saturday featured a 2.5 hour car ride to North Andover, a more boring place I've never been, followed by a birthday party in a bar for an 88-year-old woman, which was not as exciting as one might think, followed by another 2.5 hour ride home. The big event of the birthday party? 45 minutes of posed picture extravaganza -- which I absolutely despise -- because these people do it every month at some event or another. The evening ended with a bowl of Mac-n-cheese.
Sunday, I went grocery shopping with my husband and child. Then I went to see The DaVinci Code with my little sister. It was much better than the critics would have you believe. Tom Hanks wasn't "wooden," nor did Bettany steal the show. It was good cinema. For once, it was worth the exoribitant cost of admission. The story did vary slightly from the book at the end. I don't know why. It wouldn't have cost them anything to be true to the story in that spot. They were certainly more than diligently faithful in the rest of the film. Perhaps I should reread the end of the book, but I'm pretty sure they made a critical change with the brother.
Anyway, it was good.
Sunday evening my husband smoked and grilled ribs and we had a feast. As usual, his skill was superb and the food was fabulous.
Monday, it was imperative that I finish a few household projects and do some cleaning. I didn't get everything done, but I don't feel terribly guilty. Once in a while you have to take some time off, ya know?
Anyway, I'm back at the keyboard again, busier than ever.
This message goes out to the original SpySistah. I'm a day late with this post, but I figure you got your gifts several days early, so it averages out to even.
That's right. There was another dust-up in the neighborhood while I was gone.
Fortunately for me, though, my very good friends/Desperate Housewife replacement players were sure to inform me right away.
I love these ladies! Who else is going to fill me in on the latest scandals in our tiny little burg?
This week's scandal surrounds She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, of the infamous Party Crashing post. Yes, that twit who thought crashing a private, invitation-only party and literally begging my guests to leave for the charms of entertaining her mother instead. (I say twit, but really I think she's an ignorant jerk. Kathy, however, merely thinks she was off her meds. Po-TAY-toe, Po-tah-toe.)
It seems that the unrepentant party crasher and her husband were celebrating Ms. Party Crasher's fifth birthday with a little boozer. (Okay, okay. She's chronologically older than 5, but she doesn't behave as such.) I was out of the country, but to be fair, I wouldn't have gone had I been dying of thirst.
Well. The story goes that apparently my friends of the Desperate Housewife stories did go and make an appearance. However, these people who have a very clear tendency to party into the wee hours did not stay long. So imagine the neighborhood chagrin when very loud drumming (of the teenage drum set variety) begins issuing forth from the house of hell at the ungodly hour of 1:30 a.m. People were a bit peeved. And, a very plucky teenager of whom I am growing increasingly more impressed, decided enough was enough, and wandered over there to beg the cretins to have a little compassion for those in the neighborhood trying to sleep.
I swear, the image of a teenager begging drunk adults to keep it down will stay with me unto my last dying breath.
The drunken adults do, in fact, stop the drumming. However, about 30 minutes later, they start up the very loud and very illegal fireworks, intermittently firing them off until around 3:30 a.m. They woke babies. And several neighbors called the cops.
However, it took a while for our crack squad of keystone cops to catch the infidels, despite the noise and lights of an ongoing party on an otherwise very quiet and dark street.
This isn't the end of the story, however. It also seems that Ms. Party Crasher and her hubby had left their own party and gone to a bar - leaving their own children at home with God Knows Who in Charge.
That's the real scandal, in my opinion. Of course, if I had been home and wakened by the noise, I wouldn't have stopped with calling the police. I'd have called it in like a domestic dispute, claiming to have heard gun fire.
Well, you won't believe it, but they are doing it again. They are throwing another surprise party. Why not? It's been a whole two months since the last (non)surprise party.
I'm sorry, but I find this to be FUCKING RIDICULOUS!
It isn't enough that it is another surprise party. Oh no. It is also a surprise party for the same person not surprised at the last one. Last time it was the mother-in-law's birthday. This time? Wedding anniversary.
Villains Vanquished would like to take this moment to wish Saddam Hussein, ex-President of Iraq, a very Happy Birthday today.
We hope your prison cell is tidy and that you get better treatment than your own prisoners did. Certainly a murderous degenerate like yourself deserves a birthday wish, so you can take your pick today of a raping, a trip through the wood-chipper of hell, or the mutilation of the body part of your choice. We know you are homesick for the good ol' days, so maybe this will make you feel better.
Saturday, Prince Charming and I went down to the big Surprise Party for his mother's 60th birthday. Despite the fact that the party didn't start until 6:30 p.m., we had to be there at 1 p.m. I don't know why. We ended up sitting on our thumbs for the better part of 4 hours. What a waste of time. I could have been cleaning house!
So, much as I suspected, the surprise wasn't a surprise. She did a decent job of faking it though. Of course, since they told her it was a surprise party for her brother-in-law's birthday and asked her to bring the potato salad, you would have thought that they could get it done. Unfortunately, they played it up a little too much, and that was clue #1. Clue #2 is the fact that the purported recipient of the party, namely the brother-in-law, was already a surprised party at one of the previous surprise parties I mentioned before. Even in this family you don't surprise the same person twice in the same year. Clue #3 is the fact that the brother-in-law, a.k.a. the decoy, had his birthday several weeks ago. Clue #4...and this is the doozy...was when someone came up to her earlier in the week and apologized for missing her party.
Duhrrrr.
Of course, my prince and I had planned to not stay overnight. We've not had much time at home lately, so we wanted to sleep in our own bed. That revelation earned us the opprobrium and censure of the whole bunch. Give me a break, people! As it was, we did the dishes for the little shindig and then drove home. We were in bed a little after midnight.
I just have a few more complaints to share. First, the food sucked. Too much salad dressing and mayonnaise present. Second, the meat that they had catered...sucked. It was over-cooked. Third, that freakin' cake I had to pick up and pay for? It was dry and cost more than my wedding cake. As it was, the children had to split the cost of the party. Which, by the way, means that based on our quarter share of the cost, the party also cost more than my wedding reception.
Ah, the things we do for love.
Note to the guilt-trippers: We might come to visit more often if you strived to make the visits more pleasant and less like an indictment.
I am prone to over-reacting. What can I say? It is who I am. Passion makes the vanquishing of villains all the more...venomous.
So here are two tales in which most of you will think I am just being bitchy and taking offense where none is intended.
Vignette #1:
My husband's mother is scheduled to be the recipient of a surprise birthday party in March. I don't know how much of a "surprise" it will be though, as there have already been 2 surprise parties for this bunch in the past 5 months. Nevertheless, we must attend. So, being the good wife that I am, I called up Prince Charming's sister and offered to bring the baked goods. (I am famous for my baked goodies! They all chow down like I've brought the last food on Earth.) However, I was brutally rebuffed. I was told - "Oh. No. We're going to do a birthday cake." No shit, Sherlock. So, I let it slide on by and left it alone.
Last night however, I learn that it will be our job to pick up the cake, transport it, and fetch the veggies for the veggie tray. (I say "our" job, but really it is MY job, because Prince Charming delegates all such tasks to me.)
My issues are as follows: first, if I was going to have to be the one to pick up the damned cake, why the hell did they have to choose a bakery on the west side of Madison, a damn hour from my house? Second, if I was going to have to be the one to pick up the damn cake, why didn't I get to choose the bakery (seeing as how I know I'll be the one paying for it)? Hmm? Third Issue, why the fuck did they have to choose a bakery that is 3 hours from the party venue? Do you know what can happen in a three hour car ride to a large sheet cake? Fourth, seeing as how they don't live on the outerbanks of Fucking Nowhere, why the hell do I have to buy carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli here when they can damn well get it at their own grocery stores?
It is true, I offered to help. I was also told that my assistance was not needed. And now? Now I get to haul my ass all over greater Madison is search of what will likely be some dry sheet cake that is far inferior to anything I could build. I, the one with the highest of standards when it comes to baked goods, get to show up (and pay for) what will likely be as tasty as frosted styrofoam. Not only is it insulting to me...but my reputation suffers! How can I be the favorite Auntie, the one with the delicious kitchen, if they make me bring pure crap?
So, I am extremely annoyed (in case you couldn't tell).
Vignette #2:
I am not attending a function this weekend because I am in a snit. You see, this group had scheduled for everyone and their families to go to that winter haven that is the Wisconsin Dells. However, because of a certain person's failure to plan, I was informed yesterday that Prince Charming and I had been bumped to different (and significantly lesser) accomodations. "You don't have kids, and you never use the waterpark, so we're putting you at *****." Gee, thanks, I feel so second-class.
So, I was insulted. You are right. We don't go swimming in toddler urine, but we do go down to the bar, order room service, etc. Taking this step down was going to be severely unfun, if you know what I mean.
What is most insulting is the "you don't have kids...." That's right. As of yet, there are no royal heirs to Prince Charming's Kingdom. Yet, when I was hired, the almighty was mighty concerned with how soon we would be spawning. I was led to believe that our waiting was decidedly preferred in the almighty's grand scheme. So now, to be penalized for something that was originally a selling point...I'm pissed off. I am not going to take it! We will not be treated in this callous manner.
Yesterday was my daddy's birthday. I called him last night to wish him a happy one. I love my daddy, and yes, I still call him 'Daddy'.
He has taught me so much. Not the least of which was how to shoot, a love of history, a thirst for knowledge, and respect for our armed forces. He has a very real love for this country and he passed that on to me too.
It was very bizarre growing up as we did. My father is a bit of a contradiction. He only had my sister and I for children, so the boy-type stuff didn't always interest us barbie-girls. It wasn't his fault we were girlie-girls. It was just who we were. But, he must have made some inroads because I went to being the type of girl who would scream bloody murder at the mere presence of a stink bug, to taking several Entomology courses in my pursuit of a degree in Agronomy. (As a matter of fact, I have developed a highly tuned skill in drawing insects free hand - well enough in fact that a faxed copy of said drawing can be used in identifications.)
Anyway, I was going to talk about my daddy's contradictions. See, Dad insisted that my sister and I learn all of these survival skills and other sorts of men-type activities. Shooting, changing oil, greasing machinery, pulling on a wrench, welding...etc. However, because we were girls, he also insisted that we be able to "feed our future husbands real food." So, the macho guy insisted we learn cooking and sewing and the domestic arts as well. It turns out, he didn't want us to ever have to rely on a man...but also wanted us to be able to really take care of one. It still makes me laugh because the inherent message there is that women are more capable than men. My sister and I can do the work of man...and we can provide a domestic heaven for a man. But I doubt that most men could say the same.
And, if my father had had just one son...I doubt he would have been schooled in the domestic arts, if you know what I mean.
But, I love him for all of his quirks. After all, I am who I am because of him. Which really means, I'm a self-sufficient woman who drives my husband insane. And my husband has my father to thank.
The weekend provided an opportunity to celebrate our entrance to the Terrible Twos, aptly named, let me tell you.
